


high tides

by jongdaesang (d10smessi)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Korean War, Body Worship, Emotional Sex, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Internal Conflict, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-01-03 22:35:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 105,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12156186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d10smessi/pseuds/jongdaesang
Summary: In the middle of a cold war, Kyungsoo gives Jongin the longest summer of his life.





	1. two places

**Author's Note:**

> **WARNINGS: Violence and graphic depictions of death. A has PTSD and panic attacks (not called that way in the story considering the context). B has a disability. A more detailed warning on the end note of the last chapter if you need one; contains spoilers.**
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> _While the author has tried to stay true to historical facts, this story is a work of fiction. Any similarities are purely coincidental._
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> I hope everyone appreciates this story. I have put a lot of myself into this. Sometimes, I think I have put too much. Even if there was a prompt, I could not deny that I wrote this the way I would like to read it. It was an indulgence for myself too. This is the story I would want to read. But no matter, this is a wonderful journey in discovery—I feel like I am reading a diary, in a way.
> 
> I would like to thank my beta, D, and S. And to a lot more people but, seriously, I think the alphabet will run out of letters if I mention everyone (R, K, B, Ka, Ro, Cs, M, C, Do, N, T, and oh my god, did I miss anyone?). Most who had no idea what I was writing, but was still cheering me on. Writing this story really did take a village, and then some.
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> And of course, thanks to you—for giving this story a chance. I hope you love it the same way that I do, even for a fraction.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy! The wait, hopefully, will be worth it.

**_prelude_ **

 

Jongin's life was not his. His memories were built by other people. His self was built by other countries. 

 

Inside a drab house north of the peninsula, floorboards barely warm with the last heat of dying coal, in the winter of January 1926, he was born into a family of already four, to a father and a mother who both worked for the same steel mill owned by the Japanese. He remembered being a toddler, cradled in the bosom of his mother as she swayed from right to left, feet shuffling. Jongin would stick his thumb inside his mouth, humming along to create the tune his mother would dance to, as the Japanese roam the streets of Korea like they own it.

 

Like a sad story, she would whisper in his ear, watery, “The war will be over soon.”

 

She died before it did. 

 

He was seven and he remembered his mother’s coughs, wracking her thin body and crinkling her long skirts as she clutched on to the fabric. The starkest imprint of her that Jongin could make out of from the hazy memories of early childhood was the wooden rosary always hanging beneath the folds of her top. He would grip it in one of his hands, playing with the beads and putting the cross inside his mouth. He remembered his mother laughing, pulling it out, saying, “This is something sacred. This is the symbol of God.”

 

He had asked then, in the tinkling way only a child could. It was, maybe, the fall of 1932. His mother’s heaving chest was not yet spouting blood and mucus. “What is God?”

 

His mother’s smile had been hopeful. She answered, “He will save us.”

 

Jongin believed her then—continued to believe her afterwards. He thought, someone will save his family, his country.

 

At thirteen, his father followed, succumbing to an illness they did not have the means to get diagnosed. The rosary lost its meaning and Jongin was a blasphemy in the form of a boy, his sisters would often say. He would shrug, would retort, “It is a piece of carved wood.”

 

Jongin knew there was no god like an absolute certainty. He carried the rosary wherever he would have to go to.

 

So he was a heretic and Korean; it did not require much thinking when, at nineteen years old, face open and limbs lanky, Jongin had said yes to an older man, portly and bald, recruiting young boys—barely men. Most of them were from orphaned families. They were easier to persuade, particularly those in the lower classes, the ones with barely any food on the table. They had nothing to lose. 

 

Jongin had nothing to lose. 

 

His sisters escaped to the south, along the beaches on the tip of the peninsula, leaving him alone in the same house, because it was hard to be a Christian during the times when the only god anyone could ever recognize was whomever would liberate the country. 

 

The floorboards were no longer heated; spring had come even without the blooming flowers.

 

Jongin had thought it was the right choice, wholeheartedly and willingly joining. There were turmoils in China. The Soviets were marching near the border, down. The Americans, if the gossip mongers were to be believed, were docking sometime in the next year, in the ports south of the country. Barely an adult, he became part of a military, a guerrilla group, desperately put together with hand-me-down artillery and unheard prayers. 

 

He just wanted the war to end. Jongin wanted to rest.

 

His entirety, past his nineteenth year, was a collection of red bleeding through the murky brown. The red flag of the socialists, the Soviets, on the deserted and dingy alleyways. The decorations on their misshapen uniform, sewn and put together clumsily. The blood seeping down the soil on the trenches all over the country, crossing over invisible lines and through the regions up in China that stretched towards the dying lands in Manchuria. 

 

Before he was two decades old, red had become a constant, a familiarity, that he felt like it was the only thing he could see. The color was always on his periphery, clouding his vision. Sometimes, it was rimming his eyes from the nights when he could remember the screams and the pleas. Sometimes, it was on his hands, caking underneath his fingertips, as he dragged bodies after bodies of mutilated silence. 

 

Jongin had learned fast enough that the dead could only speak in his dreams.

 

The people he killed appeared more often than his parents did.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**_April 1950_ **

 

Jongin had just started another chapter of the book he was reading when someone rapped on his door—three subsequent knocks, solid on the hollow that was the wood. He inserted an old inventory receipt—grenade counts, ammunition, gun types, fuel reserves in between the words of translated and annotated Lenin—to mark where he had stopped. He called out, “Come in,” as he pushed the book away. The desk rocked, one of its feet shorter than the rest. Jongin took another unused paper, folded it tight, before bending down and placing it underneath the uneven leg.

 

The knob twisted and the push was slow. The hinges creaked as the door swung open. A tall figure was backlighted by the afternoon sun, orange and yellow mixed with the bleed of the red Jongin was intimate with. The man stepped inside his room and the door was closed instantly. The hinges cried again.

 

“Lieutenant Oh,” Jongin greeted. He craned his body towards his visitor. His right forearm was resting flat on the table, right leg crossed over the other. “What’s the matter?”

 

“Sir,” Sehun tipped his head down. His back was straight as a rod and his hands were behind his back, clasped. He had wide shoulders, feet apart. At rest. He added, “Major Gwak wanted you inside his office. Closed door.”

 

Jongin eyed Sehun’s blank face. The man was younger than him by a few months. Jongin was older by two years, only in terms of experience in the battle field. He had done unspeakable things during Sehun’s teenaged years which the younger officer had spent frolicking on the ports of Hamhung.

 

He stood up, nodded. Sehun turned back to open and to hold the door for him. Jongin gripped the ends of his white shirt, twisting it in his hold before slipping the hem underneath the band of his trousers. He slid his hands, tucking the garment properly and smoothing out the kinks.

 

The two of them walked quietly across the halls. Sehun followed him, standing right on his six like always. They passed by some of the commissioned Soviets in the barracks. Jongin exchanged a nod with some of them and the ones below him halted and saluted. Protocol was the same anywhere else in the world.

 

Major Gwak’s office was at the end of the hall. Jongin knocked twice, knuckles on the solid wood. Their commanding officer had a heavy door, more than enough for firewood in the middle of fucking nowhere when it was cold and everyone’s hands were freezing around their rifles. Such was the fate of a soldier, Jongin thought. Forever in the mercy of their commanding officers.

 

There was a muffled acknowledgement from inside so Sehun opened the door. With a tilt of his head and a pair of pursed lips, he gestured for Jongin to come in. When Sehun closed the door from the outside, it did not make any noise. Jongin, in reflex, brought his feet together, thighs pressed. His arm was in a perfect angle, back rigid and fingers not touching his forehead.

 

“At ease, Senior Lieutenant,” Major Gwak said. His voice was gruff and his face was wrinkled. The office was bright but the older male’s features were dim. Jongin stood at rest, hands linked together on his back, just on his tailbone. The Major ordered, “Step closer, soldier.”

 

He walked near the large table in the center of the room. It was finished dark—there were dents from various blades and Jongin guessed that one had to have been inflicted by a pocket knife, slim and deep, a controlled cut. There was a Korean map in the middle of the table. The corners were held by three paper weights and a gun. The TT was closest to their company officer, lying like a careless afterthought over the waters of the Pacific.

 

Jongin knew it was anything but.

 

He snapped himself to attention when the Major said, “In three days, I want your platoon to be ready.” Jongin’s eyebrows rose to his hairline but he remained quiet. Subservient. “You will march to a small village near the Ongjin Peninsula. Just by the border.”

 

The 38th Parallel was a black line painted on the map—an imaginary border agreed only by a handful of men, none of which were from Korea after the Japanese had annexed the country, occupied the land as theirs. Jongin clenched his fists tightly from where it was resting behind him. His facial expression did not change.

 

Major Gwak continued, “You will take control of the village. Weed out as many as you could. The village was hard to defend what with it being a little off course.”

 

His commanding officer raised his head and the tip of his stubby finger moved somewhere in between Haeju and the Ongjin peninsula. The 38th Parallel was a glaring reminder that the place was not theirs, by some definition. Jongin knew that the Major wanted the platoon to take it back.

 

“And what of the villagers,” he asked, told himself to keep his back straight and his voice even, “who will not comply?”

 

There was a smile on the Major’s face, all teeth and akin to a predator. Jongin could imagine blood dripping from the canines to the chapped lips to the wrinkled chin. “It is your job to make them, is it not, Senior Lieutenant Kim?”

 

Jongin was a soldier so he replied, strong and resolute, saluting, “Yes, Sir.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**_April 21, 1950_ **

 

Jongin led a platoon of twenty-three men to Haeju airbase, some fifty kilometers near Ongjin, tucked away and separate from the rest of the provinces slightly above the 38th Parallel, maybe even in between. The outskirts of the province was quiet, mountain ranges bracketing and hiding remote villages. The boys packed their necessities—guns and bullets, small hand bombs, food, some spare clothes, pilfered pornography. Their communications specialist was putting away the radio devices in the jeep. 

 

Jongin eyed the ration. It was not bad—there were grumbles from his men, but soldiers were the most experienced whiners he had seen in his entire life. Jongin, in fact, had lived worse in the impoverished Wonsan with his family, in the deserted lands in the middle of the Chinese Civil War as a Korean volunteer nudged towards a different country with the desire to give aide.

 

It seemed so far away now as Jongin looked around the twenty-three men under his command. His uniform was ironed straight and his rank glimmered from where it was sewn near his breast. The cut of the uniform and the type of the fabric were both different from what the privates were donning. It was daunting—to be responsible for other lives aside from his. 

 

Jongin used to stay behind the 17-pounder, dressed in pants and shoes and nothing else, streaked with brown and black from the soil mixing with gunpowder, firing down highly explosive shells one after another. Tungsten leaked through the sweat and grime on Jongin’s skin but he loaded the machine with ease, uncaring of the other men flanking both his sides and doing the same thing. 

 

None of the men who had stood beside him had lasted long, men rotated like wall clocks, and Jongin slept beside dead bodies on the hard ground.

 

Here, in the airbase before heading to the village he and his men were assigned at, Jongin was clean shaven and his hair was combed back. He was overlooking men loading their cargo on the light vehicles. His hand was behind his back as he exchanged words with an officer of a higher rank.

 

“Senior Lieutenant,” he acknowledged. Major General Rang took the cigar in between his index and middle finger with the thumb supporting the thick roll. Jongin did not turn his head away when the smoke streamed out of the older man’s mouth, a little escaping from his nostrils. It smelled quite unlike anything that Jongin wondered where he had gotten it. The Americans, he remembered, were fond of them. The Soviets—he was not so sure. He added, stare heavy, “You are on your own time now.”

 

There was a bite on the Major General’s clipped tone. Jongin nodded, dared throwing back, “As I have always been, Sir.”

 

There was a tilt on Rang’s head before he gestured to where Jongin’s platoon had been waiting. The younger saluted and there was something that could almost be a smile on the higher ranked officer. Rang had always liked his boys with acid tongues.

 

His soldiers stood in attention and Jongin slid to the passenger seat beside Sehun. His second-in-command gave him a curt nod. Jongin inclined his head to the front and the ignition roared to life, noisy and rumbling. Both of Sehun’s hands were loose on the large wheel. The rest of the men followed the GAZ-67 that the Lieutenant was maneuvering out of the base and into the terrains around Haeju.

 

A few minutes passed and the roads became bumpy. Jongin was holding onto the front as Sehun deftly made a right turn without falling off of the open jeep. There was sigh, derisive and half way into a scoff and a ridicule, from the younger man. Without removing his eyes from their path, Jongin watched as Sehun twisted his lip upwards in a crooked smirk. The other man commented, “I can’t take Rang seriously when he’s smoking—what do you call them sticks—cigars? Yeah?”

 

Jongin grunted and Sehun’s fingers drummed on the steering wheel without pattern or coherence. The man continued, “He looks like he was sucking cock. Every single goddamn time.”

 

The senior officer snorted before the inhale was dragged long by soundless laughter. He replied, a little out of breath like that one time he had shot three men in the span of five seconds, “Soldiers had been punished for doing something less than what you had just said.”

 

Sehun shrugged one broad shoulder, jostling the jeep off of the imaginary road. “Rang was not here to publicly admonish and punish me.” The man made another turn and, behind them, there were hoots among the lower ranks. The only thing that could make them noisy like that, that fast, was talks of women. Jongin let his stare point straight as Sehun, with an underlying leer on the tone of his voice, added, “Unless you will. Punish me, I mean. Send me off, maybe? Let my fucking soul rest, yeah?”

 

Jongin closed his eyes. “I really should.”

 

The jeep rumbled and the vibrations of the wheel pushing and pulling against the beaten not-quite road sent tremors from the curved bottom of Jongin’s foot up to his calves and his legs before settling on the end of his spine, slowly tingling upwards the length of it. His teeth clattered.

 

“But you will not,” reminded Sehun.

 

After a beat, the elder answered, “I will not.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The village sat on a valley just outside of Haeju, below the border—in between. Jongin was sitting straight on his seat, back a perfect vertical 180, a zero degree. Overhead, the sun was unforgiving with its heat and he fiddled with the stand-up collar, slipping his forefinger and pulling at the material of his uniform. Beside him, Sehun had the wide collar of his brown uniform undone to the second button. He did not make a comment and instead kept the envy he felt towards the Lieutenant to himself. Sehun’s uniform was made to endure the heat better than his.

 

Their jeep trundled across the rocky terrains, and the noises of the other soldiers had died down to almost nothing. The rubber wheels moved against the gravel with definitive crunches.

 

“We’re almost here,” Sehun said. Both his hands on the steering wheel turned white-knuckled and his shoulders were tense. Jongin raised his left arm straight, his hand open and the back of it to the soldiers following their vehicle.

 

The GAZ decreased in speed and so did the ones following them behind. Jongin kept his gaze to where he had seen the first house and then, another. Their vehicles passed through the several smattering of homes and Jongin saw the way the children cowered against their mothers’ long skirts. Tiny hands were fisted on the layered cotton as faces hid from their view.

 

It was not an unfamiliar sight.

 

Jongin kept his back straight, his expression flat and borderline grim. He heard an audible gasp before he saw a man run. He gestured for the brake and Sehun understood, immediately, slowing down before stopping.

 

“You!” He called out. The jeeps behind him also braked and they stopped right in the middle of the road. He saw an elderly couple rush inside their home. 

 

The man slowed his steps and Jongin had to call him again before he turned. There was a pained smile on his face. The corners of his lips curled, reminding Jongin of an alley cat. Grimy and sly.

 

“M-me?” He stuttered. He wrung his hands together, grasped the material of his _hanbok_ ’s long sleeves. Jongin did not know if it was deliberately off white or if it was as worn as it looked like.

 

“Yes,” Jongin replied dryly. He got down from the vehicle and the other man audibly and visibly gulped. Jongin was taller by a few centimeters, not much that he would tower over the other, but enough to highlight an intimidatingly cut build. There was a revolver easily seen near his hip. The Nagant had a home inside a commissioned leather sleeve, barely concealed. He thought he had seen it glimmer with the way the shorter man’s eyes flitted down and, then, right. The man’s fingers trembled.

 

After a beat, Jongin asked, “What’s your name?”

 

“Jongdae,” the man whispered. There was a hitch on his voice, fear caught inside the column of his neck. Jongin smiled inwardly—the man had nothing to fear, yet. Jongin had done nothing worth being fearful over, as of the moment. Clarifying, Jongdae cleared his throat and, a little louder, added, “Kim Jongdae.”

 

Jongin hummed—he could not make out if the man would roll over or if he would fight back.

 

He took a step and Jongdae took one backwards, as if on instinct. The sun threw shadows to the village, 16:15 glare on houses that had seemed to stop progressing. Jongin rested the back of his left wrist on the sliver of hard muscle and soft flesh above his tailbone, below the length of his looped leather belt—another luxury, an authentic thing imported from Moscow—before he gripped the other wrist. He looked down at Jongdae, relished the minute quaking of the other man’s lips. Like a helpless kitten in front of a lion.

 

“Jongdae,” he drawled, the last syllable breaking off in an aborted sigh. The man’s shoulder turned even more rigid—a surprise, since he had been much tense the moment Jongin had called for his attention—and his eyes were darting to and fro different directions. Jongin was sure the short man was looking at the group of soldiers behind him. He added, loosening and tightening the grip he had on the wrist on his back, “Would you care to escort us to where this village’s chief is?”

 

“I—what do you—I mean, why are you here?” The hem of the man’s top was already wrinkled with the way he was holding the material in between his hands. His head was pointed towards the group of uniformed— _armed—_ men.

 

“Just a friendly conversation,” Jongin said. He tried to smile, a little thing. They taught this in the constabulary—cordiality to the point that the other party would be thrown off. He added lightly, “We are here to offer him our protection.” It was scarier, he knew, to look into the eyes of an amicable man only to see blood thirst.

 

“Do you want—I can go with—” Jongin watched as the man’s eyes went to the gun holstered on his person again, quick, before momentarily flicking towards the direction of the parade of jeeps, soldiers stuffed in the front and back, tight with the limited budget from the Major General.

 

He cut off Jongdae’s rambling, said curtly, “Go with us to the village chief then.” 

 

The shorter man nodded, two quick strokes. His eyebrows were furrowed, weirdly enough, upwards. He gestured for Jongdae to follow him and he pointed to the back of the jeep, remarked, “Just make some space for yourself.”

 

Jongin waited for Jongdae to clamber on top of the vehicle. Short legs hitched high, the man dropped gracelessly amidst their packed belongings. He saw Jongdae gulp once more when he spotted a Type 97 and 98 rifles lying less than a foot from where he had plopped down. Jongin did not point out the automatics on his immediate right.

 

“All good?” He asked, slipping into the passenger seat. Jongdae squeaked out an affirmation and Sehun turned the engine once more.

 

Jongdae directed them—and the soldiers still following—across the small village. Jongin did not move his head but his eyes roamed the surroundings. His second-in-command knew what to do, and so did the boys of his platoon. Their vehicles were slow and Jongin assessed the unfamiliar place calmly.

 

The houses were roofed in overlapping tiers; the bigger ones were made with clay tiles and the smaller ones, the more common ones, it seemed, were made with plaited straw. The people averted their eyes when they passed but Jongin knew that gossips would spread the moment they were an inch out of sight. The community was unlike the shipping town where he was from. The houses started clustering together and there were more people out and about. Someone was carrying a basket and holding a child’s hand on the other. It looked like time had stop for these people when, all along, the pace of Jongin’s life was moving alongside the whiz of his bullet, keeping up with each other’s speed.

 

It was unlike the tenement housing in Wonsan; the cramped cinderblock apartments were straight out of the Soviet Union, post-Japanese occupation of the Korean peninsula crumbling away one signature at a time. The government was more than eager to adapt the practices of the people north of their border.

 

Here, Jongin could see where the roots of these people had buried deep under the ground. There were paddies a little off ways, a stretch of green amidst the blue of the afternoon. There was a thicket of trees behind a strip of houses and Jongin licked his bottom lip, thought of the map he had tucked inside his bag. He transplanted the remote forest against the latitudes, a tiny secret for himself. 

 

There was a low-rise building, all cement and rectangular, with square windows—a school—and beside it, a health center. At that exact street corner, Jongdae asked them to turn. Sehun did so wordlessly, face a mask of stoicism and efficiency.

 

“We’re almost there,” Jongdae mumbled and the jeep decelerated. Jongin had a hand on his gun, an instinct and a comfort after all the years he had spent with it as his only companion. Jongdae pointed to a house sitting on a wide piece of land near a rice farm, said, “Stop there. That is where the chief lives.”

 

The _hanok_ was a large L-shaped structure and a courtyard was fashioned out front. Sehun stopped a few meters from the house, keying the ignition off. Jongin took a deep breath before getting down from the jeep. The rest of the soldiers’ vehicles were haphazardly squeezed on the empty plots. From the corner of his eyes, Jongin saw a young woman scurrying inside the village chief’s house—probably a daughter or, not unlikely, a mistress.

 

His men all clambered down from the cars and he let them stretch their limbs even if the journey from Haeju to the village was mercifully short. He watched as Jongdae did the same, toeing around the armaments he was just sitting down with, before he jumped out. Sehun was more graceful in his exit, one long leg extending out first and then hopping.

 

Jongin approached the taller man, tipping his chin upwards once. He said, “The boys are yours to control. I’ll talk to the chief myself.”

 

Sehun saluted, “Yes, Sir,” before his voice boomed—first and foremost, cursing the members of the platoon and their mothers. The younger male had always loved the rush of authority.

 

“Lead the way,” he requested. It came out sounding like an order and Jongdae was hasty to obey, tripping over himself and over one of the sliding doors of the house. It was made out of wood and paper—the _hanji_ was beautiful against the medium shade of brown. 

 

“Village chief! Uncle!” He called. His voice was shaking, the syllables broke against one another. “It’s Jongdae! Someone was here to see you.”

 

The entryway slid open and a man greeted the both of them. Jongin scrutinized the elder, ran his eyes up and down the figure. No wonder he was the chief, he thought. 

 

The smile on the man in front of Jongin's face was easy but his posture was easier. There was a patch of hair above his upper lip. His feet were bare against the floor, tapping, and there was a folk song blasting from the radio, intermittently halted either from bad reception or bad appliance.

 

The man’s eyes widened and he stood up straighter when he fully saw Jongin—uniform and coiffed hair and stern expression. His smile turned tight but he greeted, “Good afternoon, Sir. Would you like to come inside?”

 

If this was China seven years ago, the man would have been dead—and so was his entire household. Hospitality was as good as a suicide attempt in the middle of war. Except, of course, the village chief probably had no idea.

 

Jongin dipped his head low, to the side, and he answered, “That would be good. Thank you.”

 

He went down on one knee, carefully unlacing the shoes he was wearing. Long fingers loosened the length of the fabric, careful and methodical, as Jongin sneaked glances at the older man. The village chief gestured for Jongdae, head moving slightly to incline towards the inside of his house. Jongin continued to unlace the other shoe just as the man they had picked off of the streets toed his own off. Another second or two and Jongin was standing inside the house and being told to sit.

 

The chief was quick to drop to the floor in front of the low table, his left leg was folded towards his person and his right leg was bent too, foot planted on the wood and knees high up. Jongin knelt down before he lowered himself. His shin on the floor bore the weight and he arranged himself properly so that the heels of his feet were not digging on his flesh painfully. His palms lie flat on the top of his thighs; his shoulders were relaxed but even. Between them, Jongdae was sitting in a careless lotus.

 

“What brought you here,” the village chief’s eyes flickered towards Jongdae, “with my nephew?”

 

Straight to the point—Jongin liked him, a little. “Protection, Sir. My soldiers and I are here to protect the village.”

 

There was a hum from the man; the radio stuttered. “And why, exactly, this humble community of ours?”

 

“We were assigned to this post,” Jongin said. He considered his next words carefully. A wrong statement and there would be, at least, one dead body. Neither the village chief nor Jongdae was armed. “Orders from the higher ups. Your village was in the border.”

 

The chief turned to Jongdae and snapped, “Go make us some tea.” 

 

Jongdae followed with a quick, “Yes, Uncle,” before he scrambled up and disappeared in another room. The chief turned to him, expression dire and serious, but his tone did not hide the accusation resting level on his tongue.

 

“And who do we need protection from?” The man’s right eyebrow was higher than the left. Jongin’s hands curled into loose fists.

 

“The Americans,” he said. “Rhee would be moving up.”

 

“There were no large American troops staying on Korean soil.” There was a pause, sounding calculated. The chief’s lips twitched in one corner as he said, “I reckon the Soviets would be moving down. Or will it be the Chinese, this time?” 

 

Supposedly, there were neither Soviet nor Chinese military anywhere on the peninsula. 

 

Jongin’s face was a solid rock when he replied, “Classified, Sir.”

 

The older man’s lips twitched once more before he sighed. The chief’s shoulders slumped; Jongin knew that answering _classified_ in a yes or no question was as good as an affirmation. “Do I have a choice?”

 

“Yes.” There was always a choice but—Jongin continued, “We would need rooms to rest. And a temporary place to house what we have brought with us.”

 

A resigned exhale and then, “How many were you, in total? I would arrange your housing with the citizens. I assume none of you and your company are picky. What with being used to sleeping wherever.”

 

“Twenty-three,” he answered. “And no, a roof above our heads would be enough.”

 

There was a momentary lapse between the conversation. Outside, the wind blew and rustled the leaves and branches. The radio was still going on, going off. The folk song had long transitioned into another and Jongin strained to listen to the boisterous camaraderie of his boys a few meters from the house.

 

“I did not even know your name,” the chief groaned, breaking the impasse. “Yet here I was, giving shelter to soldiers from the other side.”

 

“Kim Jongin. Senior Lieutenant from the 105th, Sir.” A pause and then, “Do you believe you are—with Rhee?”

 

Jongin tried to keep the hardness from his voice. It was too early for talks of such nature. The village chief raised his stare before averting it to the ceiling. He let out a great exhale like he was taking off a huge weight resting from on his stomach up to his chest—out of his mouth and into the open air.

 

“Do we even know which side we are on?” The chief closed his eyes. “We are a remote village near the border. Some people do not even know there is a war.”

 

Jongin scowled, “There is no war.” _Yet._

 

“There is always war, for people like us living where we are right now,” the elder breathed out. 

 

“Where do your loyalties lie?” Jongin remained a cold statue, as cold as the revolver on his hip. His fingers twitched but this was not the time. _That_ would not be necessary.

 

The man opened his eyes, stared at something to Jongin’s right. Voice remaining even, he answered, “To my community.”

 

“So,” Jongin retorted. The sun was filtering through the _hanji._ It was closer to 17:00 now; another red to add to the multiples of the day, alongside the bright orange and the slowly disappearing indigo. “You would do whatever for your village?”

 

“Well,” the man turned to look at Jongin’s face, took in his uniform and the lapels pinned, the gold sheen of the metallic buttons. “I’d be damned.”

 

Like a cue, Jongdae rushed in with a pot of tea and three narrow cups on top of a wooden tray. He almost spilled the hot drink with his clumsy entrance, skidding on the floor from the lack of friction between the wood and his thin socks.

 

“Be careful!” The village chief barked. Jongdae, wincing, placed the tea on top of the table, grabbed the kettle where it was brewed, and poured each of them a beverage. Jongin watched as the other man put a cup in front of his uncle, and then in front of him before, finally, taking one for himself.

 

Jongin took the cup of tea in his right hand and found the thick glass had made the hot beverage pleasantly warm on the pads of his fingers. Slowly, he brought it to his lips and he allowed the smoke to waft inside his nose. He tried to smell anything out of place—poison, maybe.

 

“Go on. We have no intention of killing you, Senior Lieutenant.” The man took a gulp of the drink, added, “What have you done to merit such?”

 

There was an eerie way to the manner in which the chief delivered the rhetorical question underneath the easy joke. 

 

Jongin took a tentative sip, found no odd traces of anything that could remotely incapacitate him. They taught this, too, in the constabulary. Little traces of poison into the water, made the students know the many ways they could die. Familiarly. First hand. Jongin remembered being sick many times on top of being bruised purple on every fucking inch.

 

The radio static stumbled; Jongin continued drinking the tea. The gun on his holster was left where it was.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Barely an hour and a half later and Chief Jung had his soldiers sorted to various houses in the village. Sehun was staying with Jongdae and Jongin’s host had yet to come for him.

 

“I apologize,” the elder rumbled to him. They were sitting around the low table still after Jongin had sent his men off with a stern warning. They were soldiers not raiding barbarians. “I can’t let you stay inside my home. I have two unmarried daughters.”

 

Jongin nodded, said, “There was nothing to be sorry for.”

 

The chief hummed lightly, “Our Kyungsoo would be a little difficult, I think. But he is not a bad person, Senior Lieutenant.”

 

The younger knew what the other man was getting at. According to him, Do Kyungsoo was a single man living near the paddy fields,one of their farmers. The man was living alone on the outskirts a walk away from the chief’s house and from the crowded parts of the village.

 

The elder added, like an incentive, “I had a small shack near his house where we keep some of our harvest. You can keep your supplies there, Senior Lieutenant.” Jongin noticed how the man said supplies—the guns and the ammunition, the fuel—like it was the veritable plague.

 

He gave a short nod, replied, “Of course. Thank you.”

 

Jongin heard the telltale noise of running footsteps against the crinkling gravel and his attention snapped towards the sliding door across the table. There was a faint outline of a figure slightly hunched. The wood rattled when it slammed to the left and Jongin saw a panting man bent over and gripping his knees over his baggy pants.

 

“Sorry,” he exhaled. This must be Do Kyungsoo. Jongin had not expected a small, wide-eyed man. His voice was deeper than what he had been thinking of. His lips were quirked downwards like he was anything but contrite. 

 

“I was cleaning the house for _my visitor_.” He spat the words out, visitor had never sounded as acerbic in Jongin’s ears. He kept his face neutral but there was something simmering inside his gut.

 

Jongin did not recoil at the obvious hostility coming from the man. His eyes were narrowed into a glare and turned towards him. This was what the village chief had meant when he mentioned Kyungsoo being difficult. Jongin remembered the name, mentally cataloging the man. Height, build, the timbre of his voice, the insolence of his words. Kyungsoo had been here for less than ten seconds and Jongin knew, instantly, if a little biased, that the mad would give him a headache and then some.

 

He smiled, “Nice to meet you, Kyungsoo. I’m Senior Lieutenant Kim Jongin from the 105th.”

 

Kyungsoo’s lips curled in obvious distaste and Jongin heard the click of the village chief’s tongue. Without qualms, the man retorted, “The feeling is not returned.”

 

“I won’t get an introduction?” Jongin asked, standing up. He slung the strap of his worn bag over his right shoulder.He barely sunk down from the weight of its contents. He patted his uniform down, smoothing down the creases of the entire day. The clothes of a soldier were a reflection of his stature as much as the guns he would carry and his kill count.

 

Kyungsoo narrowed his eyes even more that Jongin wondered if the man was perhaps in need of eyeglasses. He bit out, “It seemed that Chief Jung had done the introductions for me. We need not concern ourselves further than what he had already shared.”

 

Jongin tipped his head to the village chief, remarked, “Well, your Kyungsoo is here. We’d go along then.”

 

Chief Jung waved them off and Jongin took his time to lace his shoes. Right on the left hole and left on the right hole, creating a simple criss-cross, he relished on the way Kyungsoo tapped his foot on the ground while waiting for him. There was a scowl on his face.

 

“I’m good,” he said, standing straight. Kyungsoo waved his gas lamp, clasped the handle in front of him. The moon was already bright but the incandescent glow from the lantern was creating a burst of light around the two of them.

 

The last time Jongin had seen someone use portable gas lighting, he had been half-dead near the borders of Korea and China, fighting against the Japanese and the Kuomintang—both, either, Jongin could not remember. The flickering of the light and the smell of the fuel made the large scar on Jongin’s left side twinge with phantom pain. He could not remember if it was a from a bullet or a shrapnel from one of the explosives being set off. Even now, Jongin was unsure as to which party gave it to him. He could have done it to himself, for all he knows.

 

Wars, for a mere soldier like himself, felt as if an individual against everyone, alone in the middle of the battlefield. 

 

Jongin fucking abhorred gas lamps, really.

 

“Follow me,” Kyungsoo snapped. Jongin would too but he had no idea where the other man lived. There were too many paddy fields in the village to know which one the shorter man resided near at. His hands twitched at his side. The revolver was still cold. The reminder had always comforted Jongin, in a morbid sort of manner. 

 

This was the only thing he had known. One of the three constants of his life. The gun—sometimes icy, sometimes warm from the heat it had robbed away from human bodies. The red. The rosary of his mother.

 

Jongin stepped beside the man, on Kyungsoo’s left. Their shadows stretched on the undone road and he watched as his limbs move, hands going behind himself to clasp on his back—a habit, in almost detachment. The nighttime was silent except for the music nature played on the slightly swaying trees and from the whispered musings of the wind. The cicadas chirped, swallowing notes after notes. The cicadas chirped, swallowing notes after notes.

 

“You are increasingly impolite,” Jongin said slowly, softly, as to leave the night undisturbed, “towards a military officer.”

 

Kyungsoo continued walking without any reply, the pebbles grinding against the soles of his shoes. 

 

Jongin let his sentence hang in the air before the wind blew it away, unanswered.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Kyungsoo opened the main door to his house; it was left unlock, carelessly. It was one of the smaller properties in the village, a simple rectangular structure, with a roof made of shingle. The light from the lamp that Kyungsoo was carrying dimly lit the room. Jongin deftly hoisted his bag higher on his right shoulder before bending down to untie the laces of his boots. Kyungsoo toed his shoes easily and Jongin followed the shorter man as he arranged the pair near the door.

 

He let Kyungsoo step inside first, walking across the length of the room to the other side. There was a sliding door separating to what Jongin assumed as another room, the lone room in the house. His feet were soft against the wood and the lamp was placed in one corner, on top of a side table.

 

“I rarely use electricity,” he said. “Not many in this village do because of the cost.”

 

Jongin nodded, replied flatly, “It’s fine. That won’t be necessary.”

 

The other man crouched in front of the gas lamp, fiddling with the knob to turn the brightness of the light down. Kyungsoo’s house was sufficiently cooled from the breeze and the slight nip was pleasant against the skin of Jongin’s face and what was visible from his jaw down. 

 

“Where can I change?” He asked, gripping the strap of the military issued bag slung on his shoulder. 

 

Kyungsoo gestured to another corner, the one near the entryway, and Jongin did not need to take more than five steps to get inside the small bathroom. He squeezed himself inside and he let out a string of curses when his clothed hip bumped the sink hard. 

 

He did not bother asking Kyungsoo for another lamp but he was used to removing clothes in the complete darkness that his fingers did not fumble. He took his holster off first, placing it on top of the concrete sink before both his hands grip the top button of his uniform, taking it out from the hole, and moving to the next ones. His mother’s rosary was caught in the fray of the fabric and he pulled it free, disentangling the beads from where it had gotten wound. He slipped his pants off, replacing it with a scratchy material. With careful precision, he folded his clothes properly, mindful of unwanted wrinkles and creases.

 

When he came out of the small bathroom, the coldness bit the bare skin of his torso. Goosebumps rose on his arms and his back but he did not mind, he had been on worse lodgings than this one. Jongin lugged his bag and held his clothes, unsurprised to see Kyungsoo laxly standing around and waiting for him as the man gathered his hanbok’s vest in one hand and the gas light in another.

 

“I prepared a floor mattress for you,” he said, not looking Jongin in the eye. The dim incandescent light casted orange glows on the male’s fair skin. The other man had long lashes, their shadows appearing to be delicate wings on the thin skin under the eyes.

 

“Thank you,” Jongin returned, averting his eyes somewhere else. There were a series of photo frames nailed on the wall, and he could only see, vaguely, the outlines of the figures on the photos. The light reflected off of the glass, glaring. 

 

The silence was uncomfortable and the noise of the cicadas was almost deafening. Jongin hesitated to take a step. Kyungsoo broke the silence first, barely heard from how soft it was, trying to fight off the shrill drones from outside. He coughed, “You have to sleep in the same room as I do.”

 

Jongin’s eyebrow rose and a question hung in the air.

 

A scowl, and Kyungsoo grit out, “I don’t trust you that I will leave you alone in my living room.”

 

“You trust me enough to leave yourself alone in a room with me?”

 

Kyungsoo scoffed, “I don’t trust you. Period.”

 

Jongin huffed out a short laughter. He could feel amusement bubbling in his stomach as hostility eats it away, steady. He said, “I could kill you in your sleep and you would not know it.”

 

The shadows on the man’s face shifted and his eyes found Jongin’s own. The corner of his lips minutely jerked upwards, barely noticeable if not for the fact that Jongin was a soldier. The difference between life and death was the smallest of details.

 

Kyungsoo drawled, lazy and off-handed, “What makes you think I can’t do the same thing?”

 

“Fair enough,” Jongin answered, mildly impressed despite himself. A little irritated too, for an incomplete reason. He clenched his jaw and he could feel the tick on the left corner, just below the juncture where it met his ear.

 

Kyungsoo turned around, murmuring, “After you,” as he slid the door open to the tiny bedroom. The gas lamp he was holding shone a light to the space. There were two quilted mattresses rolled down on the floor, thin and narrow, just enough for one person to comfortably fit. A pillow was placed on top of each alongside a square of folded blanket, looking scratchy and stiff. There was more than a meter between the two makeshift bed.

 

Wordlessly, Jongin commandeered the one corner of the room, empty of anything. He set his bag down and his uniform and holster went on top. His revolver remained in his hands.

 

Kyungsoo said, “My bed is the one on the right,” before he set the gas lamp near.

 

Jongin grunted his acknowledgement as he picks up the thin blanket, sitting on top of the unfamiliar mattress. The room was suddenly shrouded with darkness when he heard the flick of the knob from the gas lamp near the other man. The moonlight filtered through the lone window in the room. A single beam that illuminated a strip from where it was coming from. The night air was cold and the goosebumps had yet to subside.

 

The cicadas were singing a tune and it was too early to sleep. This part of the village was silent and Jongin wondered how noisy the ring of his gun would be, here, at this very time. He ran his index finger on the barrel as he closed his eyes. The blanket was laid to the side as he had no intentions of using it.

 

He took a deep breath when he heard rustling sounds beside him. His shoulders turned into a taut line. In the muted darkness, everything sounded like a war zone.

 

His right hand held his gun, index finger stretched outwards and thumb ready to take the lock off.

 

“I’m going to sleep,” Kyungsoo announced. He heard some more rustling, a blanket being unfolded, and then, nothing. The violent whooshing of the trees outside Kyungsoo’s home was swallowed by the steady hums of the insects. 

 

He wondered how the other man could close his eyes when there was another person in the same room with a gun on his hand. Jongin had killed men and had not needed even that. He wondered if Kyungsoo knew what soldiers like him had done, what he had been taught to do.

 

Finally, when the breathing beside him had evened out, he gripped the rosary hanging from his neck. The cross rested just below his chest, right against the hollow in between his ribs and his sternum. The wood was smooth against his skin. Thin and unobtrusive from the years of unceasing devotion towards a god who did not exist.

 

He did not bother saying a prayer—Jongin had no idea how, anymore—but he counted sixty beats from the pulse audible on his neck before he let go of the cross to slip the revolver underneath, on the right side, like clockwork. He used the same hand—wood to gunmetal, more than five years of habit—before gently lying down.

 

Jongin, with his back flat on the quilted bedroll, squirmed, trying to ease himself. Anything more than the uneven ground felt like a dream. Starched bed covers and barely filled cotton stuffing felt like the Egyptian sheets he had once tried when he bed a high-born woman, a daughter of a general. It was quick, impersonal, and now, Jongin had felt the hotel bed on his back more than the way he had slipped himself inside of her.

 

With a sigh, Jongin closed his eyes and he tilted his head, ears pressed on the covers, trying to listen to the lullabies of the gun under his pillow, singing him to a shallow sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Jongin woke up in fitful stages throughout the night. The nightmares followed him to sleep—Manchuria first, and then Chong’jin, his mother in between the distant sepia of the years he spent in the constabulary. The imprints of every gun he had held were stark on his skin, on every line etched on his palms, just as real as the one he hid underneath his borrowed pillow. His feet went past the floor mattress and the draft of the air kicked him through the gut as he felt the ground shift under him, inside his nightmares, barefoot on the soil of the frontline.

 

The image of his mother and the soft tones of her voice overflowed through the terror of the military and the war. Her fingers on his hair morphed into the structured material of his hat until Jongin did not know where the dream had begun and where it had ended, bleeding into the bad ones.

 

He woke up at exactly half past four in the morning. He knew without checking the clock, since he had done this for years already without fail. No matter how early or how late he retired at night, Jongin would wake up on the dot, exact, at the same time everyday. Only, of course, if he had even slept the night prior.

 

He sat up from his makeshift bed and he ran his hands on his face. A meter and some away, he could hear his host breathing steady. Jongin felt envy, for a moment, before he tugged the revolver from under his pillow. The weight of it was, as always, an acquaintance.

 

The darkness danced on his vision, seeping through the remaining images of a small town in China that he had helped during the civil unrest, four years ago, defined by the protruding ribs and the gaunt faces of the people. Jongin remembered starvation and spindly fingers reaching for him, asking for food and alms. The community was forgotten like the last syllable of a dying man and the only thing they had asked from them was loaves of bread, even moldy.

 

Jongin had learned the horrors of war—wars—exhaustively, and perhaps the scariest of it all was this: the people, more than anything, were caught in the middle of something bigger than themselves when all they ever wantedwas a safe shelter and a plate of food.

 

He was light on his feet when he stood up and he stole a glance at the sleeping male paces away from where he was standing. In the dark, with only the light from outside streaming in, Kyungsoo was curled into a ball, lying on his left side and facing Jongin. 

 

The thought sent a tremor that was caught in his gut, blooming into chilly tendrils, when he realized he had been so out of it last night that he had not even noticed. He gripped his revolver tighter. 

 

Kill or be killed. Soldiers had died because of the smallest details, he reminded himself. 

 

He tiptoed across to his bag, left the gun on the floor, and he pulled out a pair of trousers, a shirt, and a bath towel—all rough and cheap, provided by the supplies from inside the barracks. He groped for clean underwear and the small hygiene kit before he made his way outside the room, sliding the door slowly and breathing quietly—almost not at all.

 

Jongin fumbled around before he remembered an extra lamp he had seen last night, resting beside the door of the bathroom. Kyungsoo’s house was almost empty, lacking of anything with substance that he would trip over. Near the bathroom, Jongin placed his hand on the wall, trailing it downwards until he found the lamp. He flicked the thing on—the fuel wafting into his nose, petroleum reminding him of China once more—as he held it an arm’s length away.

 

He made a quick method of cleaning himself, taking his clothes and the rosary off first. The water was cold as hell but he barely shivered. It felt like fallen snow in the middle of a hot summer day as he scrubbed himself raw of the dirt from yesterday. He pulled out his own soap, washing his hair and his body with it. He ran the suds from the length of his torso, down to his hips and his legs, until even his feet smelled clinical. The last douse of the cold water was satisfying as the bubbles were washed away from his skin, feeling dry and squeaky.

 

Jongin dressed himself inside the bathroom and his pants caught a stray puddle, wetting the hem as he cursed lowly. The shirt clung to his damp body and he pulled the rosary, hid it under the blend of nylon and cotton. He brushed his teeth before he took out the shaving box. The blade glided smoothly against the growth of his facial hair, and the ring of it was clear from where he had tapped it against the sink. With the low light and the cracked mirror, he took his time and tried to avoid nicking himself.

 

When he came out of the bathroom, he was unsurprised to see Kyungsoo sitting in front of the low table of his living room. The gas lamp was flickering from where it was set on the floor a few feet away from the man. Jongin turned his off and replaced it from where he had picked it up before he had bathed.

 

“I woke up and you were not there,” Kyungsoo said, disgruntled.

 

“Sorry,” was his insincere reply. “I took a bath.”

 

“I could see that,” the man replied. His eyes flitted on Jongin’s wet hair to the dirty clothes and the towel he was carrying. He added, lips extending to another corner of the house, near the bathroom, “I set aside a basket for your own laundry.”

 

Jongin did not bother with a thank you as he carefully placed his soiled clothes beside another basket—Kyungsoo’s, filled half-way with the soft-looking fabrics of the man’s regular hanbok. Jongin had forgotten the last time he had worn one, only knew it was sometime before he was nineteen, in Wonsan. The traditional dress was impractical for someone of his job description.

 

Jongin padded to the living room after, hair still damp as he roughly ran the towel through the strands. Kyungsoo sat, unmoving, in front of the table. The gas lamp illuminated the relief of Kyungsoo’s jaw and Jongin stole a glance, a little sideways, just as he sat down near the man. The distance between them was crackling, palpable.

 

“You left your gun near your bag,” was Kyungsoo’s offhanded remark. “Unattended.”

 

Jongin shrugged and leaned backwards. The towel was slung around his neck and his right hand was flat on the wooden floor, stretched backwards to support him. From this vantage point, he was still looking down at the other man despite the fact that they were both sitting down.

 

“It was a sign of trust,” he said. The other man scoffed and Jongin, more honestly, added, “You don’t look like the type of man who knows how to shoot a gun.” 

 

Wrong. Jongin knew that everyone could know how to shoot a gun, if the moment arose.

 

“Everyone could know how, if given a desperate chance,” said Kyungsoo. A deliberate pause, and his eyes defiantly looked straight at Jongin's. Their gazes met and the light from the lamp flickered once more—eerie, ominous. Kyungsoo’s eyes blinked slowly, almost lazy, and Jongin took the stare head-on—like the barrel of a gun to a temple—as the man said, “If given the right motive.”

 

Jongin tilted his head and there was a cackling sound from the rooster as the black of the sky bled out, slowly turning into indigo. He let the noise permeate the silence of the room, the smell of gas and soil. Kyungsoo’s words hung between the two of them like a noose.

 

“There are no right or wrong motives,” he replied. “Only people and what they wanted.”

 

Kyungsoo’s thick eyebrows rose to his hairline and his lips quivered, the corners twitching into irritation—or, perhaps, begrudging amusement.

 

“There is always a right or a wrong,” retorted Kyungsoo. Jongin observed the length of the man’s arm as it creeped on top of the table, fingers drumming against the flat surface in what was quickly shaping up into a habit. His throat tightened, Jongin felt his tongue stick on the roof of his mouth in anticipation. “We just pretend they are not there.” He lifted his shoulder once, craned his head in a way that the shadows casted by the lamp made his jawline sharper than it already was. Another pause, and then, “Feigned ignorance is better than guilt, for some.”

 

Jongin knew a conversation when it ended and this—this was just the beginning. It was the first stone casted towards a peaceful lake, creating ripples on every surface where it had jumped, a continuity of overlapping circles on the fragile infinity of the unmoving water.

 

“Guilt,” he said as Kyungsoo stood up, “is the base of what makes us human.”

 

Kyungsoo turned to look at him and Jongin’s breath was stuck inside his throat, larynx being pressed down with an unknown weight. His stomach churned and there was something sudden, knocking him out of balance that the elbow of his stretched arm trembled.

 

There was a sad smile on the man’s face, his eyes were soft and pitying.

 

He said, an unfinished accusation, almost drowned by the sounds of the early morning, “It does not absolve you of what you have done.”

 

His hands shook and he twisted his lips in distaste. Kyungsoo walked away and his feet barely made any sound. Jongin could not help the way his stare traced the width of the other man’s back. He knew it was narrow, thin, but from where he was sitting down, it looked like an entire mountain, an immovable stronghold. He tried to listen to his own breathing, and he was surprised when small trickles of light slowly but surely filtered through the oiled papers in between the wooden panes, warming his skin slightly.

 

Jongin heaved a breath just as the sunrise came like the dawning of man, suddenly and out of nowhere.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Jongin spent the entire morning cataloguing their armaments inside the small shack near Kyungsoo’s house. The place was where the man would keep the sacks of rice during harvest season but, as of the moment, it was empty except for the containers of petrol and crates of ammunition he and his platoon had brought. The silver key dangled from his fingertips, given directly by the village chief. The glimmer of it had caused Kyungsoo’s face to go red and his eyes were narrowed into slits as he spat into Jongin’s direction a long line of obscene curses that could make anyone blush.

 

He kept a straight face, cheeks uncolored, as he threw the man an offending smirk. Jongin was a soldier and he had heard—and said—worse than that in the middle of getting shot and blown off.

 

Knee deep and in between bouts of greasing the bolts of gunmetal, imaginary sulfur and saltpeter rubbing on his skin, seeping underneath, Jongin could finally breathe a little easier than when he was with Kyungsoo. Raw charcoal and the slick of oil between the gaps of his fingers, against the terry cloth he was using to caress the length of the firearm, time passed just like that—quick and merciless, silent and unassuming.

 

“Senior Lieutenant,” a deep voice broke his concentration, loud like the instance of an open fire. 

 

Without turning around, he instantly knew who it was. No one had the audacity to say his rank like that and made it sound like an insult and a joke all at once—except for a single person.

 

“Kyungsoo,” he bit out, turning to face his visitor. He was standing against the doorjamb, one shoulder leaning into the wooden entryway.

 

The man could make Jongin feel like he was ready to cock a gun straight to his forehead faster than an American or a Japanese or even his commanding officer had done. If the man could not make his blood boil with a single exhale, Jongin would consider it a talent. There was something about the arrogant lilt of his voice and the angle of his chin that pissed Jongin off like second nature. 

 

“It’s lunch time,” he said. Kyungsoo stood straight, no longer postured on the entrance, as he gave a small nod to the general direction outside of the shack.

 

Jongin, likewise, put his things away. He twisted the cap around the mouth of the gun lubricant and he folded the rag he was using four times. He set it aside, as he holstered his revolver around his hip, slinging and clicking it in place around his leather belt. He straightened up and dusted himself off. 

 

He followed Kyungsoo outside, locking the place securely before slipping the key into his pocket. There was a small basin of water near the door half-empty with clear water and Jongin crouched low, washing his hands carefully of any grime.

 

“I’m surprised you’re reminding me of the time,” he said. Kyungsoo grimaced, glared at him like he was the lowest among the low. Jongin ignored the look, used to being on the bottom of the barrel. He flicked his wrists twice, hard, as the water droplets created a small rain to dry his hands.

 

“I would rather you starve, Senior Lieutenant Kim,” Kyungsoo almost growled. He took a step to the direction of the denser parts of the village, and then, another. Jongin followed, boots against the small rocks and the uneven road. The shorter man added with unconcealed disdain, “The village chief insisted. You and some of your soldiers were invited for a meal.”

 

Jongin did not answer but there was an unattractive snort threatening to burst free. The sunlight was streaming high overhead and it stung the exposed parts of his skin. The humidity was stifling near the slow beginnings of summer and he pulled away the material of his shirt from where it had adhered to his sweaty torso.

 

The silence was kind to the both of them and the knives formed by their words stayed underneath their tongues and on the backs of their teeth. 

 

Kyungsoo was walking with his hands clenched into tight fists, eyebrows furrowed towards the middle, and full lips in an even fuller scowl. Jongin was no different—palms closed, fingernails digging into his skin to form pink crescents in a mark of his undeniable self control.

 

When they got to the large property, Jongin saw his men standing around, some quiet and some, not. Sehun was standing stoically, face straight and expressionless, as the man they had accosted yesterday—Jongdae, he remembered—chattered beside him. The man’s hands were flying wildly and Sehun, more than once, had to incline his head to a different direction, or take a small step away just to avoid being hit.

 

“There they are!” The village chief exclaimed from where he was thumping two of Jongin’s men on their backs—both private officers looked like they did not know how to deal friendly reception. These men, including himself, were expecting hostility and resistance. Instead, they got enthusiastic greetings and a free lunch—lunches, it would seem, as Jongin eyed a plump elderly engaging conversation with his soldiers.

 

“Unfortunately,” someone on his right hissed. 

 

_Mostly enthusiastic,_ he corrected himself, eyeing Kyungsoo who looked like he would rather prostrate himself than breathe the same air as him and his men.

 

The village chief accosted him just as quickly and Kyungsoo disappeared from his vision like a particularly stubborn enemy. Jung was tall and he had no difficulty wrapping his arm around Jongin’s shoulder in a friendly gesture. The senior lieutenant allowed him, neither with a welcoming smile nor an irritated frown. There were women tittering when he was introduced to them, paraded like a prize horse with a gleaming Nagant and group of men to order. One of them had her small hand tuck a stray section of her hair behind an unadorned ear. Jongin’s expression did not change and her face fell.

 

Some were not so blatant about their flirting and the meal proceeded with much flare. There were spirited laughter and exclamations of delight from the villagers that Jongin could see his men slowly letting their guards down one funny story at a time. The younger ones—not far from Jongin’s age, but years too late in terms of experience—looked particularly overwhelmed with red staining their cheeks.

 

He had seen Kyungsoo all over, blending into the background as Jongdae entertained him. The smaller man had cracked a small smile, lips barely moving at all, but his eyes had brightened. The sunlight had made it even brighter and Jongin looked away, uncaught.

 

“Kim Jongin!” He turned around and was surprised to see one of the village’s woman, carrying a plate filled with fruits. The sweet scent wafted from his nose as the meal from awhile ago settled pleasantly inside his stomach. She thrusted the dish in front of him and he was helpless at the sight of her open face, wrinkled with age but nonetheless beautiful, the way people of her age tended to be—carefree, obviously enjoying the last of their years.

 

He inclined his head as he carefully held the piece in between his hands. The lady gripped his right elbow and Jongin almost flinched. The woman must have realized and she shot him an apologetic stare as she directed him to sit on the narrow porch surrounding the L-shaped house, characteristic of traditional Korean architecture, unblemished of the years of foreign occupation.

 

There was a plate and then some inches separating him and the elder woman but Jongin scooted a little farther, unused to the close distance of strangers who were neither paid prostitutes nor dying men from the other side of the front line.

 

If she noticed, she did not comment on it. Instead, she said, “Try the fruits. They are particularly sweet this time of the year.”

 

Jongin, out of politeness, bit into the piece of peach. The juice bursted inside his mouth, saccharine, and he felt like this was the first time again, after so many years. His taste buds had been desensitized after being used to the bland rations inside the barracks or growling stomachs in the heat of the war when the supplies had gone low and the reinforcements had yet to come.

 

“Good?” She asked. Her eyes were alight and her lips were in an easy grin. Jongin felt a twinge of envy, once again, towards people like her.

 

But then again, all of these were supposedly for her—for those like her—so Jongin might see them smile like that, the way he could not.

 

“Yes,” he replied. “Thank you.” He took another bite and he chewed slowly, taking his time to savor the chance. Not the sweet taste of the peach itself, but the experience.

 

Jongin’s eyes wandered over the scene unfurling in front of his eyes. Everyone had a piece of fruit at hand, some more than the other. His soldiers, in particular, looked like they were not letting an opportunity like this to pass. One of them was loud in his jokes and storytelling, causing a gaggle of women of all ages to giggle with their hands on their mouths. His eyes roamed the small courtyard—traditional wear mingling with the trousers and the leather boots, severe regulation haircut with the countryside fashion, if there was even such a thing.

 

His eyes found Kyungsoo and he watched, unblinking, as the man leaned into Jondae’s space, clear laughter deep as it sent reverberations that made his chest vibrate. From here, Jongin could see the way Jongdae indulgently let Kyungsoo invade his personal bubble, welcome and encouraged. There was an uncomplicated sort of camaraderie between the two of them that made Jongin wonder, silently, inside the deeper confines of his mind.

 

“You’re staying with our Kyungsoo, right?” The lady asked; Jongin had almost forgotten about her if not for her inquiry and the loud way she breathed. She said Kyungsoo’s name the way a mother would, proud and doting.

 

“Yes,” was his short answer. And then, not wanting to be rude, he added but not with an ounce of truth, “He had been good company.”

 

The elder woman laughed and she waved one thin hand in front of her face in a shoo-ing motion. With a huff, she said, “You’re lying, Senior Lieutenant Kim.”

 

Jongin’s lip twitched upwards and his eyes found Kyungsoo’s figure once again. He looked so different like this—away from Jongin, he seemed more relaxed, more unguarded. His entire body was free of the knots it had contorted itself into in an effort to defend himself from the soldier.

 

“Was I that obvious?”

 

“Not really,” she replied. The laughter in her voice had not left when she continued, “Our Kyungsoo could be difficult at times. I’m sure the village chief had told you.”

 

“That was his exact words, if I remember correctly,” he added. 

 

The elder woman was tracing lines on her long skirt. Jongin sensed a story beginning to form from the lady’s mouth and he kept his closed in an effort to let her continue. She looked like the type of person who would not let others get a word in edgewise once she had begun with her anecdotes.

 

“He’s a sweet man, really. Been through a lot that boy,” she said. There was still pride in her voice like Kyungsoo was really her son. Jongin was sure she was not; the house he was staying at was devoid of any signs of Kyungsoo having a living parental figure. Jongin sneaked a glanced at her, sideways, and the smile playing on her lips was doting, if a little sad. “He’s little antagonistic towards new things but he’ll come around. He always does.”

 

“Is he,” Jongin paused, afraid to offend someone who clearly regarded Kyungsoo highly. He swallowed and he rotated the peach in his hold. “Why is Kyungsoo so—aggressive?”

 

Jongin had an inkling of as to why but he waited as the woman hummed a short tune before she answered. “Defense mechanism. You’re suddenly here in our village, carrying guns and bombs. You’re dressed like the soldiers from up north.” There was a pause. “His parents died early, during the Japanese occupation. He was not from here but Jung brought him young, already an orphan.” 

 

He let the words sink in with clarity, tried to think of a toddler Kyungsoo without his parents, clinging to the village chief like he was the only anchor amidst the confusion.

 

“Why are you telling me this?” He asked, curious and helpless.

 

The woman shrugged, “So that you may be patient.” Another pause. She seemed to be fond of them; her old age catching up to her, lips smacking and her mouth slow. “So that you may understand that we were all victims of a war that had happened, that would happen, just in different ways.”

 

Jongin swallowed and an emotion formed inside his stomach, and inside his chest cavity. Something foreign that he could not name.

 

Yet.

 

The sunlight shifted and Jongin’s eyes were drawn towards Kyungsoo again. He was— _something_. The light shone on him like a halo from the relics of Jongin’s memories, from the stories of his mother.

 

Kyungsoo seemed like summer personified, at that exact moment—warm and vibrant. Alive.

 

Jongin looked away, afraid of being caught—by Kyungsoo, into Kyungsoo himself.

 

Instead, his eyebrows rose and, with practiced slowness, he said to the older woman beside him, “Victims or not, we’re part of the same country. We, as soldiers, are here to protect you.”

 

The woman shook her head, replied, “At this rate, there is no one same country.” Her words were firm and strong even if her posture was not. Her hands on her lap were open, palms up. Apropos of nothing, she asked again, “How old are you, Kim Jongin?”

 

He answered honestly, “24 this year, Ma’am. I was born in ’26.”

 

“Younger than our Kyungsoo by a year then.” He would be lying if he said he was unsurprised about that. Kyungsoo carried with him the air of a young man, just shy out of being a teenager.

 

She turned to him and, suddenly, it was not about Kyungsoo anymore. “You’re young, Senior Lieutenant. You have a life ahead of you.”

 

The meaning was clear under her statement and Jongin averted his gaze, looking over to the horizon this time, far away. If he imagined hard enough, he could pretend that the mountainside just beyond was the end of ends; nothingness stretched behind the sloping surface. 

 

“It is my duty,” he said curtly.

 

No one said anything for a minute before the woman spoke again. Her tone was soft but it did not betray the certainty she placed on her words. “Son, it’s okay to be selfish once in a while.”

 

Jongin kept his mouth shut. He bit into the peach and found it bitter on his tongue this time around.

 

 


	2. confluences and conundrums

The planting season started four days into their stay. Jongin had found the sun to be unforgiving with its glare and its heat when he stayed underneath for the entire day, tilling and preparing the soil. He and the rest of his men were reduced to menial labor in exchange for the hospitality they were given.

 

Distantly, there was a minute part of Jongin that preferred this to the ready provisions given around inside army bases. 

 

Today, he was using a pair of dark work pants that had been lent by one of the villagers—Youngmin, a young man who, with the right circumstance, could have just as easily been a boy with how gullible and naive he was still. The fabric did not even reach his ankles though the pair was, thankfully, loose enough that he was modest. Jongin would work in the farm bare chested and bare footed as the rest of his platoon was relegated with different tasks around the village, helping their host families.

 

He was, of course, in Kyungsoo’s care.

 

Care was a loose term, however, considering how Kyungsoo would have easily been partial towards burying himalive under the mud of the paddy fields if the older man did not believe he would spoil the harvest in five months time.

 

It was almost high noon and Jongin already had pain shooting up from his tailbone up to the middle of his spine, the bones on his back as well as his pelvis were cracking. His legs had long gone numb, only moving by sheer will power that used to have tided him over endless exchanges of bullets and explosives but had now carried him over hours of bending down to transplant seedlings on to the wet bed. He could feel the mud on his feet, pulling and bringing him down, snaking into the empty spaces between his toes. If he were to let himself, he supposed it was something fun—a shared experience with people not his men that did not involve bloodshed, either from others or from himself.

 

He was caked with dirt all over but he did not mind. He finished an entire line of rice seedlings before one of the women had called for his name.

 

“Senior Lieutenant Kim!” She waved him over. 

 

Jongin straightened up and shot her a grateful smile. From some meters away, he could see Sehun and Jongdae joining the small group where their food was being distributed inside metallic tins. Jongin waded over, stopping briefly to clean himself with a douse of water on his face, torso, feet and soaping his hands and underneath his fingernails.

 

“Here,” someone handed him a tin box and Jongin went ahead and followed where Sehun had occupied the shade of one of the larger trees near the paddies, sitting on the ground, uncaring.

 

“Sir,” he greeted with a polite nod of his head. And then, lowly, “How was the village, Jongin?”

 

They both opened the meal and their spoons dug to break the fried egg on top and mix the ground meat and the vegetables with ample rice and kimchi. Jongin, while combining everything inside his lunchbox, turned to Sehun and, in an equally low tone, said, “They were not as bad as I expected. I don’t think we had to do much of anything. Or _they_ don’t have to.”

 

Sehun made a noise of agreement, added, “The villagers would cooperate, I’m sure.” There was a lapse, spoon clinking against the container. Jongin scooped a large serving inside his mouth, feeling the fatigue of the day slowly settle into his bones and joints. Sehun was eyeing his food contemplatively, slow in his consumption and chewing. It took Jongin ten seconds before he asked, “What’s wrong, Oh?”

 

“I ran into some problems yesterday,” the younger admitted.

 

Jongin perked up and he placed the box lower, on his lap. He scooted closer and he leaned down, taking precaution. They could look as conspicuous as they wanted as long as none of the village people heard. In a soft whisper, raspy and deep, he inquired, “What problems, Sehun? Are they something that needed—”

 

“Not yet,” the man cut him off. Jongin would have reprimanded him anywhere else but here, the circumstances were different. He and Sehun were equals, almost—the man was his right hand, the person always behind his back. There was little room for trust in the time of war and Sehun, for Jongin, had managed to occupy that.

 

That, and he allowed it, not wanting to elaborate.

 

Sehun took another bite of his food, trying to appear nonchalant as his eyes failed to meet Jongin’s, going around the men and women who had just worked a sweat in the rice fields. His face had yet to crack but Jongin could recognize the slight downturn of the man’s lips that was nothing but pure dislike.

 

And then, “I heard talks among the younger villagers.” Another bite of the food, munching lazily before swallowing. “There is an anti-communist league.”

 

Jongin’s senses sharpened at the words and the food was suddenly unappetizing. “Violent faction? Are they causing harm among other villagers?”

 

“I am uncertain at the moment, Sir,” Sehun answered truthfully. The downturn of his lips turned even lower. “I would assume the group was hot for propaganda, currently—seeing as we’re not engaged in combat.”

 

Jongin quirked his lips, clicked his tongue. He retorted, “They could be bidding their time.”

 

“They could,” Sehun agreed easy enough. The younger soldier was busy mixing his meal. His fingers were loose around the end of the spoon. When he looked up, his eyes seemed faraway. “A group like that, Sir, would need financial assistance to be functional—and successful.”

 

Jongin realized— _of course_ —what that meant. His eyes trailed somewhere, to the general direction of the village chief’s house, and he wanted to say he was thrown off-kilter but, in reality, he was not. There were political maneuverings necessary to survive. He remembered the chief’s words on the first day—anything for his community—and he knew. 

 

There were only two possible things that could have happened in the future: kill or be killed. Jongin was not going to let anyone pull the trigger on him.

 

“Sir?” Sehun distracted him. “Are we going to take actions?”

 

Jongin contemplated, tried to roll each order on his tongue, constructing scenarios inside his head, one on top of another. He said, “No. We’ll wait; we will play by their hand.” Sehun nodded his head at that, satisfaction spilling out of him alongside agreement. “Be discreet in informing our men. It’s a need-to-know basis, for now, since most of the villagers seem to doing fine as it is. Their safety is our priority; we have time.”

 

Before Sehun could even answer, the two of them were interrupted by a cheerful voice, pitched too high for the weather.

 

“What are you both doing here whispering amongst yourselves?” Uninvited, Jongdae plopped beside the two of them. The man, who had dragged Kyungsoo with him, made the shorter sit on the thin patch of grass on Jongin’s right. 

 

“Nothing,” Sehun was quick to reply, diffusing any and all doubts about the two of them.

 

Kyungsoo snorted and Jongin turned to the man with a severe expression.

 

“Conspiracy, probably,” he muttered darkly. He was stabbing his own lunch inside the tin box. Jongin saw Jongdae elbow his friend in a not-so discreet manner. Kyungsoo did not bother hiding the unpleasant twist of his lips behind his spoon. 

 

“We are not,” Jongin defended, “plotting against you or your village.”

 

Kyungsoo looked up, glaring, and there was a vindication dead set on the hard length of his jaw. “I did not say anything. I mentioned nothing but two words.”

 

“You implied it,” Jongin hissed. Kyungsoo made him wonder, sometimes, how nice it would have felt to throw the first punch, watch that face in pain.

 

“You would not have come to that conclusion if it were not true.” The man snarled at him, straight teeth behind pink lips. 

 

Jongin sighed loudly, audibly, before he spoke, tone hard and boring no room for arguments. “You could think what you wanted to think about me—us, Kyungsoo.” The older man’s glare intensified as if mortally offended that his name passed a soldier’s lips. “But we were doing our job, just as you would do yours.”

 

“I would not call mindless killing a job.”

 

This time, Jongin’s vision was bounded with red, blurring slightly around the edges. His right hand curled around the end of the aluminum spoon tight and he thought he would have bent the utensil if provoked further. The other hand that was gripping the lunch box shook, trembling with the rage building up underneath his skin.

 

“I was—am—serving the country,” he said, slowly enunciating word for word. There was silence among their group and Jongin had almost forgotten about Sehun and Jongdae, mind blanking and tunneling towards Kyungsoo and Kyungsoo only. His breathing sounded harsh to his ears and his pulse was fast and erratic. His chest felt weighed down and his throat was tight, veins poking out from under the skin.

 

“Do you think there is still a country at this point?” Kyungsoo gnashed his teeth, snapping, “You are serving no country but several men.”

 

“All I ever wanted was the best for my fellowmen,” he retorted back. Jongin was still sitting down but his haunches were taut and his hackles were raised. At barely a moment’s notice, he could have Kyungsoo on his back. Their words were sharp and pointed, stabbing each other with trained precision. 

 

“Then,” the older man threw with a disdainful and accusing smile. It was cold and dark, crumpling Kyungsoo warm-looking face into an icy statue. “You are doing shit for us. Nobody wanted a war.”

 

“I did not want a war,” Jongin gritted through his teeth. The tension was thick and he swallowed, took a deep breath from his nose. The soil smelled of something putrid. “But I could see that it was a necessity.”

 

“It was not,” Kyungsoo returned. “Food is a necessity. Water is a necessity. There was no need for war and—”

 

“Kyungsoo!” Jongdae cut him off blatantly. Jongin had never heard the man sound that authoritative, or that menacing. Even Sehun beside him sat up straighter, if that was even possible. “That’s enough. Calm down.”

 

The older man seemed to sigh, resigned, as he deflated. Jongin had never seen anger visibly dissipate that fast outside the ranks of soldiers who were trained to obey their commanding officers with a single bark or, sometimes, a look. The impression made the simmering anger inside of him slowly hibernate into the ever-present irritation and judgment. Jongin was a hypocritical man.

 

Jongdae had one of his hands on Kyungsoo’s back. From here, Jongin could see the man’s palm moving up and down on the middle of Kyungsoo’s back from where his spine had curved downwards, creating a shallow valley. The man was bent close near Kyungsoo’s right ear and this time, it was them who were whispering, exchanging soft words. Jongin could not understand what was coming out of Jongdae’s mouth, far too low for his hearing, except for the way it rumbled on the man’s chest—soothing, almost a coo and a plea to his ears.

 

There was something else on the pit of his stomach, something he was too scared to name. Jongin tried to finish his food, resolutely keeping his eyes towards another direction. Sehun did the same and it felt like there was an entire border between them and the other pair. 

 

Jongin had never known, until that instant, that 38th Parallels could be drawn amongst people too. He let the silence that had befallen among the four of them speak, loud and deafening.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The collision came later, a week and some days into Jongin’s stay in the village. He should have seen it from a mile away, a whole armored tank stark against an empty horizon, but Jongin was still blindsided when it had happened. 

 

His life continued on, dragging across the dirt of the countryside and Kyungsoo’s worn wooden floor. It felt longer—the days here were measured in seconds, heartbeat counts and breathing patterns rather than the military time he was so accustomed to, fast and reckless, seemingly orderly but, in actuality, a series of _fuck it’_ s more than anything else.

 

The afternoon sky was almost finished with its transition; the moon was up in the sky, visible but unlit with the remnants of the day. The mottled purple and rose created an expressive watercolor painting on the endless canvas blanketing the world.

 

Jongin was sitting down on a low stool in front of a large basin, filled with water and dumped with dirty potatoes. The water was already murky and the cloth that Jongin was holding in his right hand was stained with grime. On his left hand, he was holding the starch, running his hands all over to clean the remaining soil from every nook, trying to bring out the golden skin.

 

Beside him, Kyungsoo was also doing the same thing, almost done with his share from starting earlier.

 

The juxtaposition was not lost on him—underneath the grandiose stretch of the sky were the two of them, cleaning potatoes with rags cut off from old clothing. It was humbling, to Jongin.

 

Kyungsoo stood up and he hitched the basin on his hip supported by both his hands. He dumped the water to the side, letting it seep through the soil knowing it cannot be used anymore. 

 

“I’m leaving,” he announced. He leaned the basin against the wall of the house as water dripped from the container downwards to the ground. “Jongdae’s going to come pick me up any moment. There’s some leftover rice and kimchi for your dinner, and dried fish. You can help yourself.”

 

Jongin grunted and he continued to clean the potato skins, occasionally dipping it back to the water to soften the soil that clung to it. Just as he turned his head to the side to wipe the sweat of his forehead on his sleeve, he felt a damp _something_ against his face, making a wet sound. It smacked him straight on the lips and he tasted acid and mud on his tongue, and the scent stuck on the skin beneath his nostrils. 

 

The rag slipped down, falling towards his own basin, and it made a splash on the dirty water. Some splattered on his person and Jongin felt his cheeks warming considerably while the sides of his neck seemingly burnt. His heart started steady before it hammered against his rib cage. There was a growl threatening to break free from his throat as he turned to where the older man was standing idly.

 

Kyungsoo had the audacity to snicker just when Jongin was about to let it go. He spluttered, “S-sorry.”

 

Jongin had heard more sincere words from defectors and his ears rang just as his blood boiled. Out of instinct, he reached for the gun that should be holstered on his hip. His right hand gripped thin air, finding no gun, before he stood up.

 

He stalked towards Kyungsoo and with a threatening voice, he said, every word punctuated by anger,eloquent, “What the fuck.”

 

It sounded flat and he saw Kyungsoo gulp, much to his satisfaction. He took one step forward and the older man took two back.

 

“The basket is near where you are,” the man reasoned. Jongin could see the line of his shoulders from how straight and tight it was underneath the top of his hanbok. The elder’s hands were curled into small fists and Jongin noticed the slight trembling of them before Kyungsoo pressed it close on the outside of his thighs. The other man’s throat was tense and his eyes were shifty.

 

Jongin did not give a warning when he grabbed the upper garment of Kyungsoo’s white clothes with one hand. The fabric was rough on his fingers but the slam of the other man’s back on the concrete of his own house had to be rougher. The noise was loud amidst the stillness of isolation.

 

Kyungsoo’s teeth clicked together and he let out a frustrated noise, irritation and anger wafting out just as much as Jongin’s. His eyes were strong and made of marble, chipped and ice-cold, before the slow beginnings of fire materialized on his irises.

 

Jongin leaned down, face to face with the other man. “You’ve been nothing but rude ever since I came to live with you.”

 

The fire in Kyungsoo’s eyes was blazing now, incandescent in the rapidly darkening moment. The man’s breathing was uneven, heavy as if pulling strength from within. He spat out, “You deserve every ounce of hostility I could give.”

 

The sky illuminated Kyungsoo’s face, shifting the colors on his features. His eyes were a light brown and from where the minimal light hit them, they looked closer to gold than anything else in this village. Jongin sneered, “All I ever wanted was for you to treat me the way I was treating you.”

 

Kyungsoo scoffed at that, breaking off into a snort, and then, jeering laughter. Time stands in between the two of them, right at the palms of their hands—Jongin on Kyungsoo’s fisted shirt, Kyungsoo on the deathly grip he had on his thighs, as if preventing himself from throwing a punch.

 

“Never,” Kyungsoo said. “Not to a murderer.”

 

“I’m a soldier!” Jongin half-screamed, exasperated. The last strand of his patience snapped just like that and he pushed Kyungsoo deeper into the solid wall of his house. Like if he tried hard enough, the older man would sink beneath the weight, collapsing the foundations of his own home.

 

Kyungsoo did not push him but his words were enough when he hissed, with all the antagonism he could muster, “You play with the lives of innocent men.”

 

Jongin staggered, detached himself from the older man. He exhaled a harsh breath, retorted, “Has it ever occurred past through your thick skull—” He thumped his index finger on Kyungsoo’s chest, the pad of it digging on bone, on the shallow concave of his breast bone. The man was thin—too thin—like anyone who lived on bare sustenance in the countryside. “—that one of the lives I was _playing with_ was my own?”

 

Kyungsoo’s cheeks were flushed and the light shifted once more and, this time, it did so with the ground underneath Jongin’s feet.The man stepped forward, left foot first, as his right arm swung backwards. His fist collided with Jongin’s nose, knuckle to bone, and the only saving grace was the fact that there was no cracking noise to be heard.

 

“Fuck!” Jongin released a loud expletive when he felt something warm and wet trickle from his nostrils. Kyungsoo’s fists were stained with the color red just as Jongin raised his right hand to his nose. There was blood.

 

His head blanked out, static and white noise eating away the last remains of his rational thought. He put his weight into his right arm and he felt no care when he brought it forward. He outweighed Kyungsoo by a good few pounds—he was the one trained in combat here, the one who owned a gun—and there was no remorse in his gut when Kyungsoo ducked, almost being caught. 

 

“Shit, fucking coward,” Jongin threw another punch and Kyungsoo remained crouching low. He felt arms wrapped around his midsection before the man’s weight tried pushing him down. Kyungsoo ran him through, one foot hooking on Jongin’s ankle, that the world tilted just a bit as he felt his back go down on the rough dirt. Pebbles and stones dug on his skin, scratching and cutting the thin material of his shirt, like a painful reminder of years spent hiding behind artillery and Jongin flailed around, grabbing a fistful of the older man’s dark hair. His stomach churned when Kyungsoo gasped in pain—the length of his throat was exposed, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

 

The flames burning his irises were white-hot and Jongin felt like it was scorching him from the inside out.

 

“Kyungsoo!” Someone screamed. “Jongin! Oh my fu—”

 

Before he could do anything, Jongdae came to save Kyungsoo, pulling the other man away from where he was pressed on Jongin’s middle. The older man thrashed as Jongdae wrapped himself around him, trying to stop wildly moving limbs. The man tried to calm Kyungsoo, whispering on his right ear.

 

Jongin sat up, remained on the ground as he tried to regain his breathing back to normal. One, two, three, until ten. Until he could not feel the blood thirst anymore. Kyungsoo was glaring at him balefully but he was rapidly turning into a soft babe inside the cradle of Jongdae’s arms.

 

He sneered, standing up and brushing the dirt from his pants. He noticed Jongdae shift positions so that Kyungsoo was partially hidden—so Jongin had to go through him before he got to Kyungsoo. It was admirable, if not stupid.

 

Jongdae was covering Kyungsoo’s right ear, pressed tight, with his other palm loose on the left. “What happened here, Senior Lieutenant?” His voice was wary, like he was not sure that Jongin would not go to town apeshit because of Kyungsoo.

 

“We lost our temper,” he said flatly. “He punched me in the nose.”

 

_Right_ , Jongin remembered. He was still bleeding.

 

“Kyungsoo punched you?” was the incredulous response that Jongin did not expect.

 

Jongdae pushed Kyungsoo away, hands on each of the man’s shoulders. Slowly, in a low but firm tone, he asked, “Did you punch Jongin, Kyungsoo? Did you do it first?”

 

Defiantly, he listened as Kyungsoo answered a definitive, “Yes.” Jongdae sighed loudly and he pulled Kyungsoo away. The two of them continued with their chatter and, Jongin assumed, one-sided admonishment. The sky had already turned navy, the day breaking into the quicker nights of summer.

 

Kyungsoo looked contrite after Jongdae was done with him. Jongin’s eyes lingered on the way the man’s hand was clasped on Kyungsoo’s wrist, loose and familiar.

 

“Kyungsoo and I could meet another time,” Jongdae shrugged. “I apologize for my friend, Sir.” And with a pointed glare at the two of them, added, “You two need to talk this out. You’re both being childish.”

 

He saw Kyungsoo about to protest, mouth already gaping open but the words died on his tongue with a look from Jongdae. Jongin watched as their unexpected visitor waved himself off, threatening the two of them with punches and extra hours of working in the fields, as he disappeared into the night.

 

He walked towards the direction of the house and finally, Jongin registered the sting on his back against the cold open air and the trickling blood, drying fast on his skin. He heard soft footsteps follow him but he ignored it in favor of removing his shoes. When he entered the house, he cupped a palm under his nose, making sure the blood would not drip to the floor. From experience, he knew it was a bitch to clean off from almost all types of surface except skin.

 

Jongin padded to the bedroom he shared with Kyungsoo, slumping down in front of his bag and digging around for the small medicine kit he had pilfered from the supplies in the airbase at Haeju. He flicked it open, one hand still cupped under his nose, when he felt the distinct stillness of hesitation between the open gaps of the sliding door. There was light from the living room, barely enough, and there was someone standing in front of the entrance.

 

The light moved, spilling inside. A hand on Jongin’s right shoulder. He did not jump at the sudden contact but it was a damn near thing.

 

“Let me help,” Kyungsoo said. The man’s knuckles were dyed with Jongin’s drying blood. The room was dark but there was enough glow from the dancing bursts from the gas lamp in the living room. He wondered why Kyungsoo did not bring it inside and, in a blink, he knew why.

 

Kyungsoo’s hands were shaking but it was neither because of fear nor because of anticipation. His eyes flitted down to where Jongin’s thin shirt was fitted to him like second skin, slightly damp from the dirty water from before. He watched as the man quickly raised his gaze, looking anywhere except below Jongin’s collarbone.

 

He held still, moved his body so the older man could have easier access. This felt like a new territory—intimate compared to the cold indifference and the heated words they had thrown at each other. The other man put the kit between the both of them like a box almost the size of Jongin’s hand could serve as a a fort that would hold the two of them at bay.

 

Kyungsoo scrubbed the blood clean from Jongin’s face, first. With soft touches, his index finger explored the bridge of Jongin’s nose. Featherlight caresses on the slight dorsal bump, against the sides, on the round tip, he kept quiet and allowed Kyungsoo to do as he pleased. Jongin did not know the reason but he withheld the information that he knew his nose was not broken without inspection. The pads of Kyungsoo’s fingers fluttering on his skin left sizzling imprints like hot iron, searing metal brands on raw flesh.

 

The light was barely there and the two of them were no more than shadows, darkness coming together into physical abstractions. Kyungsoo remained quiet and so did Jongin—their twinned breathing was steady and calm, unlike the violent panting from minutes ago.

 

“Your nose is unbroken,” Kyungsoo said. Jongin almost laughed—the older man sounded disappointed and relieved at the same time. He gave a tap on Jongin’s cheek, twice, light against the skin of his tanned face. “Turn around. I’m gonna check your back.”

 

Jongin did so and Kyungsoo said, “I’ll raise your shirt now.”

 

He felt blind, being seen without being able to return the gesture. His eyes were trained on the blank walls and he felt Kyungsoo shift behind him. He heard the soft thud of knees hitting the floor first, before hands clasped the edge of his shirt. Kyungsoo pulled it towards him and he rose the material slowly, as if doing so would cause damage on the superficial wounds on his back.

 

Jongin had been shot near the stomach, once, two years ago, just an inch shy of missing any vital organ. There was a scar on the left side of his flank, he thought, but it did not matter much as it was one of the many marks on his body—visible or not. He remembered being left unattended then, bleeding to almost exhaustion upon the dry soil. The scrapes on his back were practically non-existent compared to everything.

 

He let Kyungsoo do as he pleased. Again.

 

Soft hands brushed away the dirt that managed to stain his skin from where it had escaped through the poor weave of the fabric of his shirt. He felt fingers caress, brushing off stray stones, as they fell to the wooden floor with the sounds akin to large droplets of rain.

 

Jongin trained his eyes to the wall, held his hands on top his lap. He heard a cap being opened before the sound of liquid. The first touch of disinfectant stung, as always, but he did not even grimace. The tiny scratches were child’s play, and something like this was something he himself would left unawares.

 

As it is, Kyungsoo dabbed alcohol on every red line, careful. Jongin did not make a sound until Kyungsoo choked, almost the sound of a dying animal. Unsure. Worried.

 

“I—” He stopped. Against his skin, the shaking of a hand was apparent. Jongin gulped and waited. “I’m sorry, for punching you. And this.”

 

_And this_ extended alongside the silence—the meaning of it was up in the air, disturbing the tranquility with its vibrations. The dabbing cotton on his skin continued and Kyungsoo blew air on the wounds, for some reason. With the disinfectant, it rendered his skin with a tingling chill.

 

_This_ could mean a lot of things.

 

Jongin did not ask. Instead, he said, “I’m sorry, too, for being violent—physical and verbal.”

 

“You were defensive,” Kyungsoo answered. Jongin’s back was bare. “You need to change out of your clothes. They were dirty.”

 

Jongin shrugged, but obliged. He pulled the cloth off of himself and the fabric caught the rosary of his mother before he pulled it free. He felt a prickling stare on the skin of his neck, at the wooden beads. Kyungsoo must have seen the accessory many times since the first day but now, it was like baring a part of himself to another man.

 

It was no secret to everyone—more accurately, no one would openly talk about it, particularly the men he served with. Theism was not allowed any less than corruption or theft. Like corruption and theft, disallowances did not stop people—like his mother, like his runaway sisters. There were people who hid and worshipped. There were people who did not.

 

Jongin belonged to neither and, at the same time, both. A religious non-believer. Superstitious to a fault without the fear of higher judgment. It suited him just fine.

 

“You’re a—” Another pause. Maybe Kyungsoo was searching for the word that was inoffensive. Jongin stayed still, waiting. “Christian? Is that the right term?”

 

“Yes,” he said. And then, clearing up, “Yes, that is the right term.”

 

“Are you one, then?”

 

He dabbed the cotton on another open scrape. Jongin could care less as soft puffs air made contact on the skin, cold.

 

“Yes.” Jongin paused and then, corrected, “I used to be. My family was. But my father had never observed the religion.”

 

“And you?”

 

“I left that a long time ago.”

 

“When you joined the army?” Kyungsoo scuttled backwards; Jongin knew from the telltale loss of heat that was the born from their previous proximity. He twisted his body and he was surprised to see them side by side. He was sitting on Kyungsoo’s left as he reached inside the bag for another shirt. A week and then some, two laundry days, and he had yet to unpack.

 

With clarity, his hand came in contact with the revolver resting inside the sleeve of the holster, lying there like it was nothing. Jongin ignored the firearm, when less than an hour ago, he would have drawn it without a second thought. Now, the tips of his fingers nagged with repulsion.

 

He answered, curt not because of ill manners but because there was nothing more to say: “Even before that.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Jongin rested the basket against his hip. The edges dug against his bone and the weight of the wet fabrics pressed down on his side. He hoisted the hamper higher, walking carefully to the clothesline hanging from wooden poles erected on one corner of Kyungsoo’s yard.

 

The scrapes from their altercation nights ago had long healed and the length of the scabs were dried and almost peeling. Kyungsoo, every night, had helped poured antiseptic over the thin wounds and Jongin had, every night as well, held off the wince from the sharp sting against his skin.

 

The sun was high overhead and the wind was blowing steady, gentle against the rustles of leaves and the twigs. The narrower trees, practically shrubs, swayed with the breeze. Behind him, Jongin could hear the even pitter patters of Kyungsoo’s feet against the dry soil. The other man was moving slow, probably because he too, like Jongin, was carrying another basket of their laundry.

 

Jongin placed the basket on his right, carefully setting it on the ground, and Kyungsoo had his on his left. Their clothes and their blankets were clustered inside, damp and smelling of clean soap. He took one of his shirts and he twisted it around, before flinging the cloth. 

 

“Can I have a clothespin?” He asked. 

 

Kyungsoo bent down and took a smaller box. “Here you go,” he said, handing it to Jongin.

 

The pins were made of wood and Kyungsoo’s surname was painted on it with small and tidy strokes. Jongin took one, rubbing his thumb over the _Do_ written on the edge. Jongin gripped it loose before he hung the shirt, folding it over the clothesline in half. He secured the shirt with a pin, one on the right and one on the left.

 

“Jongin,” Kyungsoo called out. His voice rang in the silence of the early afternoon. The man was clutching a large blanket in both of his hands. The white was stark and perfectly clean. The material was wrinkled and there was slight fraying on its edges. On one corner, Kyungsoo’s surname was embroidered using red thread.

 

“What is it?” He asked. Jongin picked a pair of his trousers, heavy with the water clinging to it still.

 

“I—” Kyungsoo hesitated. The blanket in his hands where spread out on the clothesline. The older man smoothed it out with his hands, pushing and pulling the fabric over the thin wire. The wooden poles quivered with the other male’s movements and Kyungsoo reduced the aggression in his action. Jongin took a step to the side, giving the other more space.

 

Kyungsoo sighed and said, “Nothing,” after a long moment.

 

The silence between the two of them turned awkward, crackling tension in the air like fireworks. Or loose grenades. Open fires in the middle of war; it was the taut stretch of stillness in the front lines when neither side knew what was about to happen and who was about to die.

 

Jongin took his own blanket, taking up a length of the wire. He used four clothespin to secure the entire fabric and all of them had Kyungsoo’s surname on the wood. Most of it was written in black ink and the others—Jongin assumed to be leftover paint—were blue, red, and he had seen two that were in bright yellow.

 

The air was thick and Jongin wondered how the both of them could breathe when it was this viscous. Like a fish out of water, clueless and desperate, he asked, “Why do you have your name on the clothespin? And on your blankets?”

 

Kyungsoo startled at the question and Jongin did too. The man almost let go the hanbok he was holding, almost slipping in between his fingertips to fall on the dirt.

 

“Uh…” Kyungsoo turned to him, bug-eyed. Jongin reckoned he looked just as stupid. The older man stuttered out, “Well, I—you know—in the village, sometimes we share things. So you put your name—or a symbol, really, but I’m not creative enough to draw anything like a flower or—anyway. It’s so none of my things would get lost. One time, I lent Jongdae a blanket—don’t ask why—but he forgot to return it and—I’m rambling.”

 

Jongin almost laughed, snorting air out of his nostrils. “You’re rambling,” he remarked.

 

A shade of red colored Kyungsoo’s cheeks and the sun made his eyes look lighter than they really were. Jongin watched as the man chuckled to himself, at himself, as he waved Jongin off in his embarrassment.

 

“I tend to do that a lot,” Kyungsoo confessed. “When I’m nervous.”

 

“You are?”

 

“I am,” Kyungsoo nodded. Jongin did not peg him to be, in his presence. The older man, ever since their, first meeting had seemed so composed and put together. Ready to trade polemics and punches with a soldier like Jongin. The man did not seem to care much about who he was. Kyungsoo added, “It is hard, you know. To reconcile what you believe in with another person.”

 

Kyungsoo wielded his words just as well as Jongin used his gun that he felt curious how the older man would be with an actual firearm—if given a desperate chance, or the right motives. He remembered Kyungsoo’s words from nights ago, strong and unforgiving.

 

The candid honesty surprised him and not unpleasantly.

 

“You’re being docile,” he blurted out.

 

The older man’s gaze sharpened, trained into Jongin’s direction. His eyes were narrowed into a glare but it was nothing serious. The other male said, “I am. But don’t think I would hesitate on punching you again. I’m trying.” He sighed, a harsh and frustrated sound. Kyungsoo’s cheeks were still flushed but it might have been from the remains of irritation. He sounded put upon, like he was putting the most effort. “I’m trying to understand you, Senior Lieutenant.”

 

_That_ surprised Jongin—even though it should not, in reality.

 

“I—”

 

“No need to thank me,” Kyungsoo grumbled. “I’m trying to be the bigger man between the two of us.”

 

Jongin made a show of eyeing the difference between his and Kyungsoo’s height. The older male had probably gleaned the joke underneath his stare and had thrown him a sneer and a twist on his lips. He noticed the way they formed into a half snarl, the thick upper lip pulled upwards as the bottom flesh was caught down. He looked as if he was trapped in between being angry and disgusted at the same time.

 

“I’m kidding,” Jongin said. He raised his hand in a pacifying gesture, not wanting to ignite Kyungsoo’s ire. The man huffed and he turned his back from Jongin’s face. There was a slight stomping in his steps when he went back to his work.

 

“Kyungsoo!” Jongin called out. The man did not turn to look at him but he could live with that. He said, “Thank you.” And then, “I’ll try to understand you too. And make an effort.”

 

Jongin did not see the man’s expression at first but after a second that extended in to half a minute, Kyungsoo craned his body to the side, his profile apparent.

 

He observed the small pull of the other man’s lips. He looked happy, truly and sincerely. For a while, Jongin felt light, like he had done an upstanding thing.

 

Jongin was going to make good of this promise—if not for himself, then for Kyungsoo.

 

The white blankets billowed with the wind and, for a single moment, Jongin felt like it was a truce—the beginning of something fragile from the unraveling threads on the perimeters of the white cloth, secured by wooden clothespins over a piece of bobbing wire wrapped around two poles at each end.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Kyungsoo brought Jongin to the village market. The long street was filled with shops of all trades, selling this and that—from food to toys to clothes. He had been here only once, bar this visit, in the entire month and so days that he had stayed within the village. 

 

It was ways out of Kyungsoo’s home and the two of them had braved the walk under the heat of the sun. Kyungsoo was fanning himself all throughout with folded papers that he had salvaged from his storage. Jongin, who was glad for the thinness of his shirt, was smiling all the way, whistling a tune that had Kyungsoo grumbling, irritable from the high temperature and the stifling humidity, before Jongin’s earnestness had won him over. 

 

The man had then started humming, the words of a folk song of something or another slipped past his bitten lips and Jongin, in turn, was rendered quiet and unwilling to disturb the tiny amount of peace that had passed between the two of them. The dust of the road swirled around them, summertime snowflakes itchy on their throat and making them cough, and Kyungsoo had his hands extended as they walked side by side. The other man was on Jongin’s right as he was on Kyungsoo’s left. 

 

The older man had his cotton pouch filled with coins, the bag’s strings were drawn shut. Jongin’s hands were inside each of his pockets, careless and languid as he pleased, looking every inch the soldier that he was even outside of his own uniform. Meandering past the throngs of people, some of them inched away before completely avoiding Jongin all together.

 

“They are afraid of you,” Kyungsoo said. 

 

He had a tomato on each palm, testing the weight and squeezing the flesh lightly. Jongin was frowning as the older man set the one tomato down, the one on his right hand, before adding the other to the rest of what he had already picked. The orange of the fruit was tinged green on the top, from where it had been plucked from the stems. Kyungsoo had said it was better to buy the ones that had yet to be ripe so they could last longer inside the vegetable basket in the kitchen.

 

“They had no reason to be afraid of me,” Jongin said.

 

He selected two bulbs of onion and a large head of garlic, handing it towards the woman manning the shop. Someone bumped him from behind before Kyungsoo could give a reply and Jongin turned around, apology ready when the man—no older than he was, Jongin assumed—suddenly bowed low, in half, at the hips.

 

“I’m sorry, S-Sir.” The honorific quivered in his thin lips and he was clutching the sleeve of his tattered hanbok. The top was the color of dark brown, and the hems of it were horribly fraying. Before Jongin could return the apology, the man had barely righted himself before he was bowing again—the same excessive politeness that had him wondering if the man would prostate himself on the crumbly ground of the market.

 

“Please don’t hurt me,” he rushed out. 

 

Jongin sucked in a sharp breath, lash on the skin underneath his military issued shirt. It was a quick painful feeling but it was, nonetheless, there.

 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said helplessly. Behind him, Kyungsoo had not yet turned around to help diffuse the situation, letting him fend for himself in the face of a man who had thought of him dangerous.

 

In the middle of war, in the front line, Jongin had no qualms of being feared. In the middle of the buzzing market, in a remote village sitting close to the 38th Parallel, the idea of evoking sheer fright, frigid cold on nauseous stomachs of average men, had done nothing but disgust him. Scare him—of himself, of what he had represented.

 

The man looked at him with wide eyes and his thin lips were shaking. He bit the bottom lip with his teeth and the saw the way it sunk on the flesh, softly at first before the pressure built up. As if breaking the skin of his lips would have stopped him from shaking violently all together.

 

Jongin was speechless and then, helpless. His mouth was in a straight line and his face, he thought, must have been the picture perfect clarity of soldier boy stoicism. No wonder the villager looked ready to piss his pants from bumping into Jongin’s back in a crowded place. 

 

“He’s not,” said Kyungsoo in an interjection. Jongin breathed out in relief, involuntary but not unwelcome. “He won’t hurt you for that.”

 

The man did not look convinced but Jongin figured he was not the type to look at a gift and try to find the faults of it. He said his thanks and scampered away, almost tripping on his feet in his haste. Kyungsoo paid for their purchase like nothing had happened, taking out a few coins from his pouch and haggling. The woman looked stressed but she did give the vegetables at Kyungsoo’s price point.

 

He wondered, after the man from before, how much of it was because of Kyungsoo’s charming smile and how much of it was because of his hulking figure behind the man, a clear presence that was not from the village. A man from up north who knew how to use a gun. A soldier.

 

“Some time ago, you had punched me in the face,” he began. The two of them fell on the steps of one another. “And I fought you back. I almost had you on your back if not for Jongdae’s interruption.”

 

“Your point?” Kyungsoo swung the pouch and the small bag of produce.

 

“How did you know I would not hurt the man?”

 

“Aside from how awkward you were when he apologized?” One of Kyungsoo’s lush eyebrows rose, and his eyes narrowed into a calculative expression. It was incongruent—Kyungsoo looked like a politician dressed the way a common peasant would.

 

“You do not hurt anyone unprovoked,” the older man finished.

 

“I was a murderer before, according to you.” There was no heat to the drawl of his words but the statement sizzled the noise that was rising over the marketplace. From a few meters away, there was a woman cradling her child, feeding the toddler with pieces of dried fruits.

 

“Yes,” said Kyungsoo. “You did your job. I think—” There was a trail on the last syllable of the word. It stretched out from one stall to the next—second-hand clothes imported from the larger towns to a tea shop offering services up front and in the back, in between rumpled sheets. Their feet struck the ground at the same time, and Kyungsoo spoke up again, sent chills to the lowest of his spine:

 

“Kill or be killed.” It was almost drowned by the sound of a vendor screeching for the milling customers to try her product but to Jongin, it was crystal. Sheepish in admission, the older man added, “I was trying to see where you were coming from.”

 

“And, were you able to?” Jongin avoided another swarm of villagers; he stuck to Kyungsoo’s side, reasoned to himself that their shoulders brushed because of the crowd.

 

“Not really,” answered Kyungsoo. “Not yet, maybe.”

 

Jongin felt his lips tug into a smile, a small thing. He tried to keep his head to the side, pretending to peruse the various establishments they had passed by. “That was enough for me,” he said and he felt warmth on his shoulder blades but he did not look.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The two of them were ready to call their little excursion trip a day and Jongin felt the heavy nuzzle of sleep tugging him towards their embrace. He tried to keep his eyes peeled open, but it was hard when his stomach was pleasantly full after Kyungsoo had gotten the both of them food from one of the shops. It was a traditional dish of the village—boiled chicken in a clear soup with a variety of herbs and other condiments, served with a platter of crispy potato pancakes with an unholy amount of green onions. Kyungsoo had tittered and pulled him towards the small store tucked away, almost forgotten, and the two of them had sat down in front of a small table, feeling more like guests inside a home rather than customers.

 

Their knees had bumped then but neither of them flinched away. The person manning the couch gave the two of them free tea, bitter with a touch of honey, to settle what they had eaten in the comforts of their stomachs. She waved them off when they had left and Jongin just watched as his companion was all smiles when he kindly promised to return.

 

Kyungsoo was happy with what they had managed to buy—some dried cuts of meat at a low price, a variety of vegetables and fruits, salt, homemade chili paste, and, in a moment of foolish judgment, a small bag of candies.

 

Jongin followed him around and carried the woven bag half-full with the expenses of their day. Noon had long disappeared into the early trickles of the afternoon but the market was still teeming with people. The din was high above their heads and the sun sloped through the roofs of the houses, tiered tiles and shingles and plaited yellow straw discolored by time were sifting the streams of light to the swarming customers.

 

The older man was keeping up a steady chatter, the low quality of his voice echoed through the stretch of distance between them, a constant reminder.

 

“This is good.” Jongin heard the man murmur. He craned his head down and was greeted by the sight of Kyungsoo placing a candy on his tongue. He licked the pads of his thumb and forefinger, chasing the sticky sweetness of the dessert.

 

“You should try one,” he offered. He extended the small bag towards Jongin and he pulled a single treat out of pouch. He took it to his mouth and he the burst of sugar and citrus was a delightful surprise.

 

“Delicious?” Kyungsoo asked. The smile on his face had grown wide and he was looking up at Jongin with a certain kind of openness that fit the balmy day. The sun blurred the man in a glowing filter and he could see with sharpness—a soldier’s skills for keen observation and the eye of a man—the wrinkles on the older man’s face, underneath his crescent eyes, extending to the outer corners.

 

“Yes,” Jongin breathed out, exhaling with the difficulty of a drowning man. There was a minute tremble on his bottom lip and the outer ends of his mouth spasmed before he felt his facial muscles pushing upwards until the world was reduced to the narrow slits of his eyes, barely seeing the older man in front of him. “It was delicious. Thank you.”

 

Kyungsoo’s chest rose up and down before laughter bubbled between his lips, soft and short. Jongin shook his head, refusing to comment. The toothy grin from before had subsided as they continued to walk to the direction of Kyungsoo’s house but the lightness inside his chest had yet to go away.

 

A moment, and Kyungsoo said, “You have a nice smile.”

 

Jongin almost tripped on his two feet just as his words surely did. “Thanks—I—that was a first.” There was an exposé on his tone that he did not intend. It sounded closer to a confession, silent and secretive, a little timid.

 

“It was?” Kyungsoo sounded disbelieving like the mere thought of Jongin not being complimented for his smile was offending him. Jongin had never met a person who was offended on his behalf, even for something as trivial as this one. 

 

“I don’t really—” Jongin floundered, felt out of his element. His insides were being thrown apart, hurtled with the speed and hammering of armored tanks in the middle of an expansive desert. He could not remember the last time someone had told him his smile was nice—did not even know it was nice, in the first place.

 

Kyungsoo shrugged like it was no big deal. There was a rift on the ground that Jongin’s feet was planted on, slowly crumbling. “You should do it more, if you want.”

 

Jongin’s mouth was open but no sound was coming out. His breathing was even but there were erratic one, caught in his throat or stuck inside his chest cavity, hollow. Before he could reply, Kyungsoo had gone tense.

 

“What is it?” He asked. 

 

Kyungsoo's eyes were looking straight that Jongin turned to the roads too. He felt his stomach drop at the sight in front of him and his hands curled into fists, as if it was instinctual.

 

There, meters from the two of them, were his soldiers. One was pushing and bumping a male villager while another looted a bag that was, he was sure, not his.

 

“Uncle,” one of them said. The tinny voice was whiny, grating. None of the passers-by stopped like nothing was happening on the side of the road, like there was no one being harassed less than a meter from the road they were walking on. The same soldier repeated, dragging the words together, “Uncle, give us some money. We want to shop, too.”

 

Jongin scoffed at the schoolboy bullying. These men were the same age as he, maybe younger by a year or two—low ranking privates of his platoon. He saw the man tremble, knees buckling, but he could not make out his low reply though he could clearly see the way his hands shook and his lips quaked, stuttering on their words.

 

Kyungsoo took a step forward.

 

“Kyungsoo,” Jongin whispered. The older man did not stop and Jongin had no choice but to grip the man’s upper forearm, just below the elbow. His fingers circle the flesh, not meeting completely, but it was a damn near thing.

 

“What?” He hissed. The veins on his neck were straining against his pale skin. Jongin noticed a mole, and then, another.

 

“Do you want to get involved?” He threw back. The soldiers would take one look at Kyungsoo, his hanbok, his easy face, and they would push him down and take the small wallet with his remaining money.

 

“Of course,” was the instant reply. Strong. There was no room for objections. “I have to stop them.” He flailed his arm, dislodging the hold Jongin has on him. “Standing around would make me just as bad as them.” And, as if correcting himself, “No. Not doing anything when I see what was happening would make me worse.”

 

Jongin felt the first jolt, right then. A thin fissure crackled on the earth and he imagined it to be perpendicular to the 38th latitude—breaking down the abstract border in the middle, the Korean Peninsula in quarters.

 

“Let me,” he said. “They’re my men.”

 

Kyungsoo was unable to reply and Jongin took one step, two, three, until he was standing in front of his soldiers. The two of the noticed his presence and, like trained dogs, they snapped in attention. The man almost sighed in relief but when Jongin’s eyes met his, the fear was tangible in thick waves. Like he was expecting Jongin to join in.

 

Clearly, that was what his men were expecting. The one who was rifling inside the villager’s bag, said, “Senior Lieutenant, sir, good afternoon.”

 

The men’s faces were proud; they look as if they were expecting Jongin to praise what they were doing.

 

“Good afternoon, privates,” he replied, tone even and friendly. His hands were on his back and his spine was straight, head high and shoulders wide. He saw the soldiers grin and their eyes flitted to each other, head-on. In the front lines of a high stakes war, the two of them would have been long dead. Jongin could have killed them without a weapon just because they carried themselves carelessly. His eyebrow rose and one end of his lips was hitched high in an mocking smirk. “What the fuck were the two of you doing?”

 

“Sir?” The other faltered. The sun was fucking hot on Jongin’s skin and he would very much like to get this over with, ream the two privates that they would never even dare think about doing what they had just done again.

 

Commanding officers did not explain themselves and Jongin scowled. The anticipation from the two men dissipated quickly into that of terror. “They welcomed us with hospitality,” he warned, “if I see another incident like this, or caught wind of another, the entire platoon will get it.”

 

They taught that, too, in the constabulary—unspeakable ways, how to make people talk, how to make them stop, how to make them move.

 

The two soldiers gaped at him and their postures turned lax. Jongin snapped, “Understood?”

 

“Yes, Sir!” The two of them saluted and Jongin nodded them off. He heard them breathe easy before running away with their tails between their legs. He crouched down, picking up the contents of the villager’s bag. He placed the two apples inside, careful in arranging them on top of a some white box.

 

“Thank you, Senior Lieutenant Kim,” the man exhaled. His face was a photograph of relief. His hands were still shaking but they were not as bad as before. There was dirt underneath his fingernails.

 

“Are you okay, Uncle Shim?” Jongin heard Kyungsoo rushing towards them and the older man bent low, pulling the man whom he called Uncle Shim upright. He brushed the man’s clothes—his shoulders, his trousers. “Did they hurt you anywhere?”

 

“I’m okay, boy,” Uncle Shim replied. Jongin stood up and handed his bag to him. The man shot him a grateful smile, added, “Thank you.”

 

“It was nothing,” Jongin answered gruffly. Shim perused what was inside his bag, jostling them.

 

“I’ll be going ahead, then,” the elder said. “Thank you, Senior Lieutenant, Kyungsoo.”

 

“Be careful, Uncle!” Kyungsoo called out, waving to the man.

 

Jongin realized there were people staring at them when Kyungsoo started walking again towards the direction of his home. He followed the man wordlessly and he could not help but feel like the afternoon was spoiled by his soldiers.

 

Kyungsoo’s shoes were crunching on the gravel from the way he was pulling them along, deliberately making noise. He said, “That was nice of you—to do that for Uncle Shim.”

 

Jongin did not want to pretend that what he did was out of the goodness of his heart. “It would reflect badly on me, as their platoon leader.” Kyungsoo hummed at that and, to Jongin’s surprise, he took the bag of candies and asked him to get another.

 

He did and the citrus and sugar were gentle on his tongue, sticking on the back of his teeth. Jongin chewed the treat carefully, tonguing the piece and rolling it inside his mouth. “If I did nothing—it was—also abuse?” His words were halting, unsure. 

 

_This._ This was not taught in the constabulary.

 

“Yes,” was the reply without any embellishment. “You would have been no better, just being idle.”

 

There was silence again. The sun was bright and Jongin resisted the urge to squint. Instead, he brought one hand in front of his face, shading his eyes from the brilliant light. He felt a little lighter.

 

“Was it good?” Kyungsoo asked.

 

“Yes,” Jongin replied.

 

They were not talking about the candies, this time.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It was as if something had shifted.

 

Jongin could not say what it was, exactly. But suddenly, Kyungsoo was lounging on his peripheral vision, an ever present company even if he was not Jongin’s companion, at any given moment. 

 

Seconds overflowed to the brim, spilling towards the minutes and the hours, until Jongin had stopped counting the actual hands. Instead, everything was now measured in paces—the amount of days it took for the seedling to take a hold of the soil, for it to flourish. It had been more than a week, more than two. The sun was still high with the heat of summer and the temperature was a good respite against the coolness of his skin.

 

Little by little, the villagers became his just as he became theirs in return.

 

Jongin knew he was threading on thin ice, above waters barely frozen with the steady looming threat of the summer season. Autumn had yet to come in its brown-tipped glory, edging the leaves and the barks of trees with the death that would bring forth a seemingly long winter.

 

“Kim,” Kyungsoo called out. They had begun with an awkwardness that was so fragile it was like treating glass—or a human body—before Kyungsoo had taken the initiative to call him by his surname. Jongin’s mouth curled around Kyungsoo’s first name, lips extended outwards before the second syllable pulled it back with a tongue behind the teeth. The older man had bristled slightly, at first, before he let go of his inhibitions, inhaling acceptance like it was thick smoke.

 

“What is it?” Jongin stopped what he was doing, putting down the axe and the wood he was chopping down. 

 

The older man preferred using firewood in cooking, claiming it was a waste of money to buy burning fuel when he was just cooking for two. The soldier in Jongin did not see the practicality of wood but the poor boy from Wonsan did. 

 

He had been doing this for less than half an hour and it was almost past dusk. The sweat pooled on the corners of his eyes, on the tip of his nose, on his temples, just as it dripped down on the dry earth. His back was damp and he was sure there were sweat stains on his thin cotton shirt, the material barely absorbing the wetness with how cheap it was.

 

“Dinner,” Kyungsoo said. Jongin saw the way his stare lingered on the garment clinging on him. He was wiping his palms down on the sides of his loose trousers.

 

Jongin said, “Okay,” and refused to make another comment. Like the high flush on Kyungsoo’s cheeks when Jongin raised the axe, shoulders and arms tensed, before bringing it down to cleanly chop the wooden logs in halves and then, in quarters. He kept himself quiet, made himself quiet.

 

Kyungsoo had laid their meal on the low platform daybed varnished with bean oil to make it resistant to the inclement weather. There were two bowls of rice, two small plates of freshly made kimchi, and a plate with three fried fish, a little on the smaller side.

 

He sat in front of Kyungsoo and the both of them mirrored each other, both legs folded inwards towards themselves. His back was curved at the top of his spine, the worst he would allow of bad posture. Kyungsoo was almost bent in half as he took hold of his metal chopsticks, clicking the utensils together. The gas lamp was already flickering beside Jongin.

 

His eyes were drawn to the fingers belonging to the elder. One chopstick on the juncture between thumb and index finger, resting on the side of the ring finger, right on the calloused indentation, and the other was moving repeatedly, fishing nothing out of thin air. He felt the corner of his lips tremble and then—warmth. Like summer.

 

Kyungsoo had looked at him with a small smile, still guarded, still wary, but his eyes were soft, betraying the shyness by which his lips were pulled. Jongin gulped and took kimchi between his chopsticks. The elder did the same and they both shoveled food inside their mouths, tired and hungry after a long day of work.

 

Jongin was peeling the flesh of the fish from its bones when Kyungsoo coughed. He turned towards the shorter man and was amused to find the other’s toes wiggling and his eyes wobbling, shifty, and unable to hold Jongin’s stare.

 

“Is the kimchi good?”

 

Jongin made a show of picking another, eating the large serving by itself. The spice was delicate on his tongue, new and unfermented, as he chewed carefully, even closing his eyes. The freshly made kimchi did did not create a sharp stinging line down his throat.

 

“Yes,” was his short answer. And then, “You’re a good cook.”

 

Kyungsoo snorted, “You haven’t touched the rest of what I had served.”

 

Enjoying the easy way they were trading their words, Jongin allowed a sliver of a grin on his face. He replied, just a tad bit on the joking side, “I did not need to taste them to know they were good.”

 

“You were loose with your praises, Senior Lieutenant.” Kyungsoo turned to his own meal and Jongin watched the other man blink slowly. His lashes caught the light, created thick shadows on his skin.

 

The silence was broken by the sound of Kyungsoo’s eating utensils clanking against the sides of his porcelain rice bowl. Jongin’s eyes were drawn to the dish ware, found a chip on Kyungsoo’s.

 

“How was—” The older man paused, chopsticks playing with the long grains of rice and punctuating the ringing of metal against the inexpensive and well-used china. “—working on the paddy fields?”

 

Jongin stared. And stared. And stared some more. He curbed the laughter bubbling from his insides, lest he offended Kyungsoo and the man tried to take his eye out using the utensils he was holding. 

 

With a huff, he said, “Fine. It was very hot.” He let the other man nod thrice, mechanical and forced, before he added in a disbelieving voice, terrible, “You were there. With me. You were working on a different paddy and you slipped on the mud after lunch time.”

 

Kyungsoo colored at that, pink on the rounds of his cheeks. Jongin did not look away even when he had to put food on his tongue. The man’s toes wiggled again, rubbing against each other in what Jongin had filed away within the small part of his brain as a one of Kyungsoo’s nervous ticks.

 

“You’ve been here for quite some time, I think. I was just asking in general.” There was a pout on his lips, tone reminiscent of being recalcitrant. The red stark on his high cheekbones had yet to vanish. Jongin did not believe him for a second when his voice quivered and his eyelids fluttered as if saying: I do not know how to make small talk.

 

“You do not know how to make small talk,” he said as much. The fish was salty on his tongue and the rice was undercooked, a little bit damp still that the grains were falling apart in between his utensils.He did not make a comment.

 

There it was again—the humming of the cicadas lulling their silence into a musical performance.

 

“I do know how,” said Kyungsoo, “I just can’t form the words when I am with you.”

 

The honesty knocked Jongin over that the kimchi missed his mouth, hitting the corner. With an embarrassed sigh, he took the food between his lips, and wiped the stray sauce with his thumb. He asked, “Am I making you—uncomfortable? Perhaps?”

 

He did not want to assume anything and destroy the thin threads of something holding the two of them together. Resting on the brink of a gasp, anything was possible, breakable.

 

Kyungsoo shook his head like nothing was amiss. He replied, chewing with his mouth closed, teeth audibly gnashing on the crisp cabbage, “Not that way, Kim.” There was a moment of a gap as Kyungsoo swallowed. Jongin’s eyes were boring on the other like a starving man—ironic, since he was right here with plates of food in front of him. He did not ask what way Kyungsoo was talking about, fully knowing what was left unspoken and to speculation. “Half the time I want to deck you.”

 

“And the other half?” He inquired. One eyebrow raised, and his fingers poised on the chopsticks, tight in their grip to the metal, Jongin tried to pry away the simple knots Kyungsoo had worked himself into.

 

The dusk had long faded into the early night but the sun was slow in its retirement. Long days were the norm during this time of the year, eating away their sleep with their late setting.

 

“The other half,” said Kyungsoo after the silence they had endured was long enough, “I think you and I would be good acquaintances, at the very least.”

 

The older man hummed and he turned his fish on the other side. He was efficient in plucking the bones on the sides before he flaked off morsels, picking at them delicately and resting a piece on top of the bed of rice in his bowl. Jongin turned his too but he was less skilled in removing the tinier bones.

 

“‘ _At the very least’_ ,” Jongin repeated, playing the words on his mouth, from the vibrations of his throat—soft—to the back of his mouth out the tip of his tongue and in between his thick lips. He did not know what he was doing but he found within himself the courage to say, “Just acquaintances?” 

 

Kyungsoo made a startled sound, low but nevertheless audible to Jongin’s ears. Instead, he chose to direct his attention to his meal, not wanting to see what exactly he had done. He huffed when he spotted another stray bone and Kyungsoo, taking mercy on him, batted his chopsticks away, quickly separating the flesh of the fish and placing it in Jongin’s rice bowl. The utensils were slightly vibrating in the man’s hands.

 

Gratitude stuck behind his teeth, bastardly stubborn, and another thing was left unsaid between the two of them.

 

There was something flitting on Kyungsoo’s lips that went upto his eyes, evident from the twinkling on his irises and the way the last fragments of the sunset alongside the lamp gave his face a distinct coloring, like a painting that Jongin had only seen inside the homes of his richer officers and the homes that were the unfortunate casualties of wartime. Or, the effigies straight out of his mother’s Bible.

 

“Good friends, I hope.” Kyungsoo was looking down on the wood of the daybed,before his chopsticks took the last of his fish’s flesh. There was still rice inside his bowl and between them, the kimchi had yet to be finished.

 

Kyungsoo’s hope dangled in the middle of their relaxed attitudes, bodies curving towards each other in half-consciousness. The older man’s statement was unfinished and Jongin would have let it be except the light hit Kyungsoo’s eyes just so, creating an endless pool of rich amber, or honey gold, that he found himself unable to stop, claiming, “In time.”

 

“In time,” Kyungsoo reiterated, brighter than the way Jongin had said it. The shyness resting on the curved bow of his lips was gone and was instead replaced by the boldness of their conversation even if, at this point, Jongin had let it run away from him.

 

Another span of silence and Jongin relished in the comfort of it, surprised that this was what the two of them came to be after a short while. Even if there was still tension lingering within the borders, in the space between them, crackling like dying campfire, lazy with its flickering. He noticed the remains of Kyungsoo’s fish—or what was once, for there was nothing but bones on the thin plate.

 

With a small smile, Jongin pushed the other one to Kyungsoo’s direction. With an air of faux authority, he ordered, “Eat the third one, Kyungsoo.”

 

The older man’s eyes widened, “Are you sure?”

 

“Yes. Take it before I change my mind.” Jongin observed the quickness by which Kyungsoo had divested the fish of its bones, amateur in the manner he filleted the piece. He added, as Kyungsoo was carefully plucking the sharp splinters. “I was the one eating free meals off of your plates.”

 

“You’re working on my farm,” the older man answered simply. He was squinting, trying to see better in the low light. 

 

Jongin shrugged and he was polishing off the kimchi when, to his surprise, Kyungsoo placed the fish he had just finished cleaning off of its bones on Jongin’s bowl with the small portion of rice that had remained.

 

“We could share,” said Kyungsoo—voice a whisper, lips a ghost of a smile.

 

And that was that.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The radio inside Kyungsoo’s living room was turned on. There was a woman trilling about the love for her man and her country, static disrupting the crystal waters of her voice—distinctively sharp and blue. The high note was interfered by a jump, bad reception from the extended antennae, but Jongin watched as Kyungsoo mouthed the words as if this was a favorite song without any interruption.

 

Sitting down on his right, Kyungsoo had a book on his lap. The cover was falling apart. The paper was worn thin and its edges were unraveling. The older man ran his fingers on the spine like it was his lover, gentle and reverent on the skin of the book. Jongin thought of those fingers and he had to strain hard to make the words out of the radio.

 

He turned his eyes on his own book, tracing the familiar English alphabet. The words rang inside his mind, the English first and then, subconsciously, the Korean translation. 

 

He turned the page and Kyungsoo asked, “What’s that?” He sounded curious, like a child, that Jongin, a little eager in his own vulnerability, handed it to him.

 

Jongin forgot to mark where he had stopped but Kyungsoo held on to the piece of literature with both of his hands. His fingers were curled over the thickness of the book, protective, as he flipped the pages and found unfamiliar characters.

 

He did not know how familiar Kyungsoo was with the language so he said, “It’s in English,” even if it seemed redundant to his ears. The older man’s eyebrows were furrowed and his lips were twisted in a half pout, half grimace. 

 

“Where did you get the book?”

 

Jongin remembered the loud bang of the bomb going off. He remembered the ruins of a large house, the library that was barely standing. He remembered the fire and what he had salvaged, stolen, smelling of smoke and gunpowder. He said, “Somewhere. I can’t remember.”

 

Kyungsoo stared at the papers on his hands, testing the weight of the page on the tip of his index finger. “I don’t know how to read English,” he admitted, timid and hesitant in his confession, after awhile. Jongin knew there was nothing to be shy about not knowing a language that was not theirs.

 

“It’s not like you need to.” Jongin smiled, assured him, “Not many do, Kyungsoo.”

 

“But _you_ do, Senior Lieutenant,” Kyungsoo pointed out. 

 

“A little bit,” he replied. He took the book from Kyungsoo’s hands and opened it to the first page. He felt the man scoot closer and he froze up. The warmth of summer clung to them, smelling like sweat and the mud of the farm. Kyungsoo stopped; there was an inch or so between the outsides of their thighs. Jongin kept his eyes on the paper. The English words blurred and were incomprehensible when, a few minutes ago, he was breezing through them.

 

The woman on the radio lamented about the love of her life loving their country more than he did her.

 

“A little bit is enough, Kim,” Kyungsoo replied. His back was curved down in horrible posture, thin shoulders hunched. From Jongin’s height and his pin-straight soldier sit, a crane of his head or a move of his eyes would have his vision filled with Kyungsoo and Kyungsoo only.

 

There was a mole on the back of Kyungsoo’s ear. 

 

And on the older man’s nape. There was another one, bigger, on the edge of the clothes he was wearing.

 

The uppermost knob of his spine protruded, and the second one too, peeking out from the loose folds of his hanbok. The tendrils of his hair were short, brushing the man’s pale skin.

 

The music jumped and Jongin averted his eyes. His hands were slowly turning clammy and he was feeling nauseated, bitterness was rising on his throat and resting there. Any minute, and Jongin felt like he would choke from the thick atmosphere that he thought only he could sense. It was harder to breathe when Kyungsoo was this close. This warm.

 

“Teach me?” The man said. He sat up straighter, not as straight as Jongin. He blinked and the shadows of his eyelashes became more apparent. Jongin’s eyes fell on the man’s lips, red from where the wind had bitten the thin skin, chapped. There was a mole on his lip, too, small, and there was one below his nose, dotting the valley created by the fullness of his upper lip.

 

“I can’t teach you in one afternoon,” said Jongin.

 

“Teach me what you can,” said Kyungsoo, “this afternoon.”

 

The woman on the radio ended her song and there was silence before the slow opening of guitar strings stole the quietness of the air. The plucking of the strings turned into fingers crawling through the notes before it transitioned into strumming in time with the low singing of a man with a deep voice, languid and patient.

 

Jongin turned to the next page, said, “When I learned English, they taught me the basic alphabet first.”

 

“They?” Kyungsoo asked. His head was tilted down to the words on paper. Jongin’s head was tilted down to the older man’s finger outlining the letters l-u-s.

 

“The military,” he answered. He waved his hand in a noncommittal gesture, “We need to know how to threaten the enemies in a language that they could understand.”

 

Kyungsoo’s back vibrated as he continued to look through the printed words. There was soft laughter coming from the man and the younger did not correct him. What he had said was the complete truth, minced into something more palatable. 

 

Jongin was taught English by an older volunteer during the Chinese civil war, in between hiding and bleeding from gunshot wounds and stray shrapnel, before he was formally schooled in the constabulary. From the years of usage, it was the one he was most fluent in aside from the Japanese and the Korean he had used and heard when he was growing up. Among other things, Jongin could say ‘ _This is under the Korean People’s Army Ground Force—hands behind your head or I’ll shoot._ ’ in four more languages aside from the other three.

 

Kyungsoo made a humming noise that Jongin belatedly realized was the tune of the song the man was crooning. He asked, pointing to a long word, “How do you read this?”

 

“ _Plausibility_ ,” Jongin answered. The word rolled cumbersome on his tongue. The letter l was caught on behind his teeth, accents running over each other and overlapping. He had never heard this one spoken out loud, but had read it before in silence, and he repeated it again, pronouncing each syllable flatly, unsure where to put the intonation and the rest.

 

“What is it,” Kyungsoo looked up, stared at him straight in the eyes, “in Korean?”

 

Jongin’s mind faltered and he scrambled for the translation, sieving through banks of information and memory. His tongue was tied and so were his insides. Instead, he settled for an explanation, answered, “The quality by which something is probable. The likelihood of an event happening.”

 

Kyungsoo nodded and Jongin almost dropped the book when plush lips formed, carefully, “ _Plausibility_.”

 

The l’s of the word moved perfectly. Kyungsoo’s lips formed a pout at the first syllable as he took his time to enunciate the word. Jongin watched the smaller man’s mouth and told himself a lie, choosing to bury the thoughts underneath piles of beliefs and reprimands.

 

“You said it better than I did,” he commented idly. There were explosions inside his stomach like the front line in the climax of war, out of control and rampaging.

 

“Beginner’s luck,” said Kyungsoo and then, “ _plausibility._ How likely an event would happen.”

 

There was contemplation in between his words and underneath his statement, there was something unknown that was brewing. Perhaps not only to Jongin but to Kyungsoo as well. The older man’s eyes dropped once more to the book in front of them, and Jongin's finger left curiosity under the sentence printed on the yellowing page, the tip chasing after the thought of the author and being abandoned in its wake.

 

Softly, in a voice that was barely a whisper, so that only he and Kyungsoo might hear it even if there was no one in the house except the two of them and—the radio station, apparently, had changed the song—the tenor belting out, high note permeating the air and breaking barriers, Jongin read, “ _The plausibility of escape was close to none but I ran and left it all to fate—and faith. And then, in the darkness of the night, with only the stars as my witness, I hoped._ ”

 

Kyungsoo inched his head closer and Jongin did, too. The older man said, “Can you repeat that in Korean? And louder? Please.”

 

Jongin did and he tried his best so the only things lost in his cheap translation were the directness and the poetry but not the thought. Their temples were close to brushing each other and Kyungsoo breathed out, amazed, “There were more, outside this small village.”

 

“Yes,” Jongin confirmed. He added, “They were not all pretty.” And then, as if realizing, “I read you one paragraph.”

 

“And that paragraph was already one of those _more_ ,” said Kyungsoo. “Can you read it to me? In both languages? I want to hear you.”

 

Jongin was aware of the movement—the first creak and the quiver that followed directly after—when his chest cavity felt full and something inside him trembled. Something budged, something small and not quite yet substantial, something he had previously believed to be as stalwart.

 

The two of them spent the afternoon reading, long after Kyungsoo had turned the radio off so that the only sounds were Jongin reciting the sentences in halting English and Kyungsoo copying the way the words would flow out of his mouth. He would then say it again in Korean—sometimes trying in its exact translation, and sometimes abridged with just the meaning. 

 

Their twinned breathing mingled with one another, an exhale for an exhale and an inhale for an inhale. The blue of the sky and the white clouds disappeared just like that, until Kyungsoo had yawned. Jongin was surprised that his voice had gotten raspy and his eyes were stinging from the strain of reading with low lighting.

 

Jongin closed the book, folding the upper right corner of the page where they had stopped. Kyungsoo turned to him and said, “Thank you for reading to me, Jongin.”

 

A pause, complete silence, before embarrassed stuttering. “I meant—sorry—Senior Lieutenant Kim.”

 

_Jongin_ came out of Kyungsoo’s mouth the way _plausibility_ did not—with a self-assurance that was seemingly born out of practice and familiarity. "I've been calling you by your first name since the beginning,” he said. There was a smile on his face. “You can call me Jongin, Kyungsoo.”

 

The older man beamed at him as the ink of the night spilled all over the pinks and the oranges of twilight. The low timbre of Kyungsoo’s voice seemingly echoed as he said _Jongin_ in a span of multitudes, repeating the name as if he was uncovering a new secret each time.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

There was power resting between and underneath the syllables of Jongin’s name.

 

Every _Jongin_ that slipped past Kyungsoo’s plush lips closed the gap that the 38th Parallel had created between the two of them. Every sigh of it, Jongin felt like he was burning several bridges and salting the earth with the ashes that were left.

 

This morning, Kyungsoo was cooking the both of them lunch to pack and to bring to the fields for another day of work. Jongin had been slow in getting used to the routine of the idle hours but he had appreciated the dawdling ticks of the clock that were not punctuated by the distinct loudness of a bang—from either a gun or a bomb—or the thunderous orders of his commanding officers.

 

In Jongin’s line of work, silence was its own expensive currency. An hour for a ceasefire, a few days extending towards the tail ends of a week for a truce, an eternity for a dead body inside a box.

 

For Kyungsoo and him, the silence that passed between them had transitioned into the comforts of neutrality. Everyday, the seconds were marked by the moment of absolute stillness that the two of them shared. Kyungsoo did not seem to mind that he was not talking and neither did Jongin. Sometimes, there were words that remained inside their mouths, buried deep into their lungs and suffocating.

 

Jongin was standing on Kyungsoo’s left side as the man was chopping some vegetables, thin and lengthwise. The knife sliced through the carrot and fell to the wooden board in steady click clacks. Kyungsoo was humming slightly and his body was swaying sluggishly, empty movements of his feet shifting from one another, from right to left.

 

“Hand me that onion, Kyungsoo,” Jongin whispered. The shorter male did not react. “Kyungsoo?”

 

The man did not pay him any attention and he eyed him oddly. Jongin watched as Kyungsoo continued his movements as if nothing had happened, as if Jongin had not said anything to him. The older male continued the delicate patters of his feet against the floorboards and the humming under his breath that had his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. The music sent vibrations down Jongin’s spine as he continued to look the other man for any sign that he had heeded his words.

 

Kyungsoo continued to cut the carrot as if Jongin had not spoken.

 

“Kyungsoo!” He called louder, just to test what he had been thinking. The man was surprised and he almost dropped the knife. It clattered on the wooden board, ruining the even thickness of the vegetable slices. He missed by a good half a centimeter, the thin cut appearing thicker towards the end that was closest to the older man.

 

He turned to Jongin with shock written on his features, lips twisted in a grimace. Kyungsoo reached to rub the lobe of his left ear and his eyes were flitting everywhere. Jongin stared at the man and his eyes roamed, from top to bottom. The male was clearly nervous—apparent with the way he was standing, knees knocked together, his toes wiggling on the floor. Kyungsoo made a questioning noise but did not voice anything.

 

“I called your name,” Jongin said. He watched as Kyungsoo stiffened up as he let go of his ear. “I was asking for the onion.” He pointed out the whole piece lying near the corner of Kyungsoo’s cutting board. The knife glinted from the sunlight streaming into the small kitchen window.

 

“Sorry,” Kyungsoo muttered. He reached for the onion and handed it to Jongin. He accepted the bulb and placed it on top of the board. His eyes did not leave the older man’s.

 

Nervously, Kyungsoo asked, “What?”

 

Jongin shrugged his right shoulder up in a careless gesture. “I was wondering if you heard what I said. I kind of noticed how you tend to ignore me—sometimes. Even before—you know?”

 

Kyungsoo turned back to the carrot he was chopping and Jongin heard a soft curse from the man’s lips when he realized the mistake he had committed in cutting the vegetable. It was cute—in a Kyungsoo kind of way—to care so much about the width of every piece.

 

Jongin almost stabbed himself in the stomach with what he had thought and he put the knife down lest he accidentally killed or injured himself. His hand shook, a little, but he curbed it down by gripping the edge of the cemented counter. The block was solid underneath his hands, rough on the calloused and scarred skin of his palms.

 

He heard Kyungsoo sigh and the sound made Jongin snap his head upwards. Kyungsoo was cutting the piece of carrot carefully. His hand was positioned on top of the piece and the knife was slicing through without much difficulty.

 

“I can’t hear you on my left ear,” Kyungsoo admitted.

 

“What.” The older man’s words did not register towards Jongin at all and the older man turned to him with a slow smile, teasing.

 

“Didn’t you hear what I said?” Kyungsoo joked. The mirth was clear with the way his gums showed with the stretch of his grin. “I’m deaf on the left ear. Kind of hard to hear you when you speak low on that side.”

 

“Oh,” Jongin said. He scrambled for the proper words to say and came up with a resounding, “Sorry.”

 

The older male shrugged, continued the chore he was doing. The drop of the blade against the board was rhythmic in its constance and pattern.

 

“Nothing to be sorry for,” said Kyungsoo. “This is how I’ve heard the world since I’ve been born, or well, as far as I can remember. I’m not missing anything.” The man used his free hand to tap his right ear, said with a confident beam—all teeth, “We have two ears for a reason, Senior Lie—Jongin.”

 

The slip made Jongin smile briefly before he looked at Kyungsoo’s face and his stare gravitated to the man’s left ear. It was so unassuming that Jongin could forget it if he wanted to, if he did not pay attention. Kyungsoo looked like he was not deaf which—

 

Which was silly. It was not like he would look like anything—like it was announced and painted on the man’s forehead.

 

“Do you think of me less?” Kyungsoo asked after a moment. 

 

“No,” Jongin defended. And then, with a sigh, “I don’t mean to come off that way.”

 

The other man shrugged, “It wasn’t as if I was doing radio announcements for it. It just is. I just am.”

 

“Of course,” Jongin hastily agreed. And then, “Is that why you’re not conscripted? Or why you have never enlisted?”

 

“I think so,” Kyungsoo answered. A moment of silence before he added, “They think I couldn’t because my left ear was not working the way theirs were.”

 

Jongin listened and heard the vindication and the hints of bitterness in Kyungsoo’s voice. Maybe it was his pride speaking. “I never pegged you to want to be a soldier.”

 

“I didn’t,” Kyungsoo replied, “Want to be one. It was the principle of the matter. I was not allowed because I was not as normal as everyone else.” He scoffed, “As if it would matter anyway. No one was normal after seeing a fraction of what a war was.”

 

The older man’s words resonated clear and true for Jongin. A small piece of the whole of war, a tiny abstraction, and a person would never be the same again. He supposed it was the price—an expensive exchange for freedom. Something that high of a value must come with a price that was equally high, too. More valuable, even.

 

Often times, the cost was themselves.

 

“You should be glad then,” said Jongin. “That you did not see anything of it.”

 

He saw Kyungsoo roll his eyes and the man retorted, dry and monotonous—almost bored, “I’ve seen my fair share, that’s for sure.”

 

Jongin waited for the older male to continue, to explain and tell his story, but it was the quietness of the mid-day that persisted between the two of them. It meant that what was unsaid would remain so, postponed for another time—even for the rest of the time that Jongin would stay with the company of the other man.

 

When it was clear that Kyungsoo would not say anything anymore, Jongin, instead, spoke up. “I think you’re brave, Kyungsoo. I don’t think any less of you just because you won’t be able to hear me when I stand on your left.”

 

Kyungsoo gave him another smile but the stretch of it did not reach the man’s wide eyes. Jongin, for a short while, despaired at the emptiness of it. It did not suit the shorter man’s face. Happiness was kinder to Kyungsoo—content and peaceful, even in the rare moments.

 

“Why?” He asked.

 

The simple question rendered Jongin speechless. The answer was elusive to him, a little. Not because what he had said was insincere and dishonest but because there were no words meaningful enough to express what he wanted. He could hear the beginnings of his pulse, loud in his ear and against the skin on the side of his neck. It was booming.

 

“You—” Jongin began and then, paused. His tongue was caught between his teeth and he licked his bottom lip, wetting the chapped skin. “Because you’re here. Alive.”

 

Kyungsoo turned to him with an expression he could not fathom. The man was looking up at Jongin’s eyes, staring dead on him. One line, one trajectory that was not even a meter. The distance was almost non-existent if Jongin went by how they had been previously.

 

“Sometimes that’s enough,” he said. “Not being dead. There were a lot of reasons to just die and I don’t know what you’ve seen, Kyungsoo. But,” Jongin made a sound low on his throat, half frustrated that he could not find the appropriate words to say. 

 

Kyungsoo’s eyes were imploring and Jongin continued, helpless with the way Kyungsoo was pulling him towards his own orbit. Jongin felt out of bounds, tilting too much. “But the fact that you’re here, standing in this kitchen and cutting up goddamn carrots—that’s enough. You’re brave because you’re alive for another day. You’re trying to be.”

 

Jongin let out a sigh and the tension that he did not know was building on the breadth of his shoulders loosened alongside the sound of his long exhale. The end of his statement was marked by absolute silence and Kyungsoo’s wide eyes.

 

There were no words spoken but Jongin could see the twitch of Kyungsoo’s lips.

 

When Jongin picked up his knife again, an idea occurred to him. He picked up the board and the vegetables he was cutting, wary of the blade resting on top, when he went behind the other man. Kyungsoo just followed his gaze and Jongin did not look at the man in the eye.

 

He placed his things on Kyungsoo’s right and said, “I want you to hear me.”

 

Kyungsoo’s smile, this time, reached his eyes when he gave it to Jongin. It was beautiful. _Like summer_ , he thought—powerless in the face of it and his knees almost buckling underneath him.

 

“Thank you,” Kyungsoo whispered, sighing shallowly. The words trailed empty except Jongin knew it was not. It was an expression of gratefulness for many things that neither of them were going to put a label on. Jongin was not sure if he could—even if he was asked point blank, a muzzle of a gun pressed against his temple, or in the middle of a Russian Roulette.

 

His heart skipped a beat and the sunlight filtered inside the windows. The glass was dirty and the light broke through the fingerprint marks and the dust. Summer came for Jongin like that—with a sigh and a confession of gratitude.

 

 


	3. days with and without laughter left abandoned

**_May 26, 1950_ **

 

Jongin’s morning began with the sound of Kyungsoo’s even breathing. At half past four, like always, he sat up and stretched his arms, turned his head to his left to where Kyungsoo was lying down. The man was facing him and he barely glanced at the sleeping form. The older male had both of his hands curled underneath his cheek and, like this, Jongin felt like there was no war outside of this bedroom.

 

At five-fifteen, Jongin was already dressed, sitting down on the living room with the lamp on and a good book. Kyungsoo would not be awake until five-thirty, at the latest. He was savoring the melancholy the author had put into words when he heard three raps on the door, firm and familiar.

 

Jongin knew who it was even in the dead of the dark, before the visitor had even called out. Abandoning his book, he quickly walked towards the entryway, keeping himself quiet and trying not to wake Kyungsoo up. Removing the latch, he was greeted with Sehun’s wide-awake countenance. The man’s face was grim, but Jongin was unsure whether it was because of the shadows casting Sehun’s already severe face into something more sinister or the bad news he had gone here for.

 

“What’s the matter?” He asked. The other man was dressed down and Jongin did not see any gun on his person, and did not make outa single concealed firearm.

 

“Troops will move down in a month, give or take a few days,” the other lieutenant whispered—straightforward and quick to the point. His voice was kept low—flat and emotionless. “News was slow to us it seemed—comm woke me up less than an hour ago…”

 

His lieutenant trailed off and Jongin took in the tense line of the other man’s body, the slight slumping of his soldiers. There was a weary air on him that was a constant to soldiers across borders, no matter the allegiance. Sehun added, “Mao was moving his Chinese soldiers with the KPA. And the Soviet generals up north finished whatever their asses were sitting around for.”

 

Jongin stepped closer. Sehun’s words were biting cold, even with the insolence. The draft of the air was chilly but it was nothing compared to what his second-in-command had delivered this morning. Jongin knew but he had to make sure so he asked, in a horrible voice from the ice-cold temperature of understanding, “I assume the USSR will remain detached?”

 

“Yes,” Sehun said. “They’re funding the campaign. Food. Money. Armaments. Advisory group. But not actual men—we won’t get reinforcements outside of the Chinese, for now.”

 

Jongin knew that the Soviets could swing everything in one go—for better, for worse. The _for now_ was a reminder that the whole war could extend for a year or more than that. 

 

“They won’t risk an all out nuclear war against the United States.” And then, spitting out the acrid taste of knowledge from his tongue, Jongin continued, “They’re bringing their own war somewhere else.”

 

“Here,” the younger man agreed with a forbidding nod. “The Peninsula would be a war zone for God knows how long.”

 

Jongin felt the rosary around his neck go heavy at the blaspheme and he said, “Fuck God, Sehun. We’re deployed here because of the village’s proximity to the border. I’d give it less than a month; someone from the south would know we’re here and it’s going to be a fucking melee.”

 

“Did you not know?” Sehun asked, after a weighted beat. _About the war, about the future_ remained clear despite being left unsaid.

 

“I had my own fucking idea, shit!” His heart was hammering inside his chest and he felt the air slowly leave his lungs. He felt like he was burning, suddenly. “I’m sure we all do. We’re in a village that was below the 38th Parallel.”

 

“Not entirely,” Sehun corrected. The village was sitting in the middle, directly. Non ownership. The border could be created but the mountainous terrains could not be moved. “Are we going to wait, Sir?”

 

“Of course,” he said harshly. “I assume company will arrive around the same time. Fucking everything that they could again, as always.” Sehun gave him an affirmative and the man was about to open his mouth when he cut him off, hand up in the air. “Tell the rest of the boys we’re going to have some friends around the trails. Don’t shoot unless they are sure it was the men from the other side.”

 

The silence between the two of them was calm but it was nothing but a bad omen. Sehun’s thin lips were pursed and Jongin’s eyes dropped low to the man’s fists curled harsh and tight that looked like he was about to break his skin.

 

“We’re lying low and keeping quiet,” Jongin added, reminded. “Wait for whatever to come. Day by day.” He leaned his right shoulder against the entryway and continued, tiredly, “They were planning a surprise attack. Have a skirmish near the border, maybe in Ongjin or Kaesong, and then launch a counter to take Seoul. Move the troops and take the South. Including the ports—the one in Busan would be the decisive factor for a surrender. Or a peace treaty.”

 

“They did not say anything, Sir,” Sehun replied. He added, “They don’t want a peace treaty.”

 

“Neither of them want a peace treaty. It’s a war for absolute power.” Jongin smiled, dark and anticipatory—morbid in its own way, a premonition. “No one is saying anything because everyone is afraid someone is a defector. They don’t need to though—to issue a formal order right now. Quick conventional warfare is the most logical thing to do if they want to finish it quickly.”

 

“They could draw it out,” the younger man retorted without heat.

 

“Yes,” he admitted. “But drawing out would require more supplies. And more supplies meant more support from the Chinese and the Soviet Union.” Jongin snorted, titled his head to the side, “Neither of them would give it to us for long. South had their own interventionists—there was the United Nations and they could step in anytime.”

 

Jongin let the weight of his words be born by both of their shoulders. The younger appeared to stagger and there was a miniscule shift on his facial features before everything was washed away by flighty anxiety. Sehun was bitting his lower lip and he was blinking fast. There was a buzzing hum vibrating in his throat. He turned to Jongin, all serious, with a touch of fear, and asked, “Will it work? Will we take the south?”

 

Jongin shook his head, said, “It does not matter.”

 

In this scenario, they were all on the losing side.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Kyungsoo had been looking at him for a while now. An hour seemed like a long, long time under the wide-eyed scrutiny of the older man. Jongin felt his throat close up every time he would crane his neck only to find Kyungsoo boring holes on his back. Or the side of his face.

 

The chill of dawn stayed with Sehun’s words, carried with it the sound of silence interspersed with the broken increments of the rooster’s morning call. Jongin’s insides were frozen, frigid with the secret he held within the palms of his hands and the cartridge of his Nagant revolver. There was a folded piece of paper shoved inside his bag containing military secrets written in codes and shorthand; their communications specialist’s handwriting was closer to an illiterate child’s than an educated man’s. The rosary on his neck was heavy and, any moment, could become the rope that would crush his windpipe until he spilled what he knew of the impending war.

 

Kyungsoo’s eyes never left his like he could read what was in his mind. He looked as if he could slowly dismantle, with mechanical precision, the knots and bolts holding Jongin’s soul together. 

 

He had just finished transferring the small crops on the fertile soil, vacant for a different rotation set this time of the year, when he was joined by Kyungsoo, bringing with him Jongdae and, to his surprise Sehun. He gave the three of them a terse smile, and Sehun was resolutely looking past him, somewhere unknown, near his right ear.

 

“Senior Lieutenant,” Jongdae whined playfully. Without care, he dropped on the grass, sitting sprawled and careless. There was a light dusting of loose soil on the sharp edge of his left cheekbone, the remains of their hard work smeared dirty on the man’s skin. He shot the three of them a smile as he gestured for Sehun and Kyungsoo to sit on the ground as well. Unlike him, the other two did it more primly, arranging themselves so they were in a small circle.

 

Jongdae had an unnerving smile, corners curling inwards like a cat’s, when he teased, “Senior Lieutenant Kim seems to be in deep thought.” His eyebrows wiggled and he elbowed Jongin to the side in a friendly gesture. Jongin let him. 

 

“Just—” He began before he stopped, not knowing what to say. Knowing he should not say anything, in the first place.

 

“Just…” Jongdae trailed, prompting him to continue. There was bright curiosity on his eyes, extending to the unusual arch of his eyebrows.

 

“Nothing,” Jongin replied. “It was nothing.”

 

Kyungsoo, who had been observing the events unfold with a neutral expression, remarked, “It doesn’t look like nothing to me.”

 

“What does it look like to you?” He shot back. He could see Sehun’s eyes widen minutely, a small change in the man’s stoic expression that could be easily brushed off if he had not been working with the man for years. Jongin knew he and Kyungsoo—acted different towards each other, now. To other people’s eyes.

 

“It looks like—” Kyungsoo paused, bit his lip. Jongin’s eyes fell to the man’s exposed teeth, digging into the soft-looking flesh. “—you are hiding something from us.” He tilted his head and suddenly, Jongin felt his chest constrict and his heart thunder, erratic and wild. The older man’s eyes were squinted as if to see him better, trying to solve the meaning behind the small english letters and the numbers comprising of latitudes and coordinates, military bases.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sehun become tense, sitting up too straight. Jongin slouched, relaxed. Kyungsoo continued, “You look like you know a horror story waiting to be told, Jongin.” 

 

He said Jongin’s name slowly, lazy, taking his time to savor the coil of the syllables inside his mouth, against his tongue, that he wondered how it would feel like—to be that word, for one moment. 

 

Jongin could clearly see and hear the reaction from the other men within their small group. Sehun’s gaze snapped towards him and Jongdae released a loud gasp, eyes going from Kyungsoo’s face, chin tipped upwards, to Jongin’s, a blank mask with the phantom beginnings of an amused smirk.

 

Unbidden, Jongin said, already loose in the mouth just from the way Kyungsoo looked at him, “I have a lot of horror stories to tell, Kyungsoo.”

 

“I know,” said Kyungsoo. His eyes went from Jongin’s face, down to his neck, and it lingered there. “You have a lot of them, for one person.”

 

“Part of the job,” he shrugged. He rose both of his eyebrows at Sehun’s direction, nodding once in acknowledgement. “Sehun and mine, ours are scarier than most people’s.”

 

“Fright is relative,” Kyungsoo said just as Jongdae did too, throwing in his own cents into the fire, “It’s not the same for everyone.”

 

Before Kyungsoo could open his mouth, Jongdae had already beaten him to it. The traces of laughter that Jongin had thought before as something permanently painted on his cutting features were gone, leaving the man with a piquant tone and a snarl half on his lips.

 

Jongdae said, “Your horror stories are other people’s too, soldier.” A weighted beat, a whisper of a breeze. “The things you have done were towards other people. They remember. Except, of course—” The man’s lips were twisted in disgust, his words were acidic when he continued. “—they don’t. Because they’re six feet under. Or, are they even, Senior Lieutenant? Maybe you just leave them there, rotting on the ground for flies to feast on. That was the only thing a dead body was good for, right? Food for the vultures.”

 

Jongin watched as Jongdae morphed right in front of him. The image of a carefree boy turning into a shell of a man. Instantly, the glamor of the village fell as he was reminded, harsh against the slap of it against his face, that no one was ever truly the same during and after the war. He stole a glance at Kyungsoo and found the man, quiet, looking down. His hands were shaking.

 

“Not always. We don’t always let the corpses rot,” Sehun interrupted. His eyes were scorching hot, thin lips in a grimace and thinner hands fisted on top of his lap. He said, “Sometimes we burn them, too. We’d gather near the fire and we would watch stiff flesh turn into ashes.” He turned his eyes towards Jongin, and he could almost recite the words that was coming out of Sehun’s mouth, a train wreck waiting to happen, a stray land mine. Jongdae was just sitting there like he was waiting for the explosions ready to erupt from the shuddering heaves of Sehun’s breathing. Kyungsoo and he were no better.

 

With a smirk and a devil-may-care attitude on his next words, Sehun teased, voice lilting high, “Did you know that dead bodies, when you light them on fire and allow them to go up in smoke slowly, smelled like freshly cooked meat done the way we liked it.” 

 

Jongdae inhaled sharply and Kyungsoo was trembling, violent. Jongin remained on his spot, quiet in front of this tragedy. 

 

Sehun licked his lips, a slow drag of the tongue against the chapped skin, “Tell you what? When you’re out there, killing bastards you don’t know and not eating for days, anything is okay so you don’t freeze your ass in the cold. And, fucking hell, Jongdae, dragging bodies to flames is easier than finding wood, that’s for sure.” The mocking was gone in a blink. “So yes, we all have horror stories to tell and that was mine—ours. Scared?”

 

Jongin closed his eyes, truth washing over him, and he heard, felt the rattles of the earth underneath his feet—they awfully sounded like Kyungsoo’s gasps, and the older man’s warning, “Lieutenant Oh, stop.”

 

He opened his eyes and he could see Sehun looking far away—leaving the three of them in the wake of his lunch time confession, that motherfucker—as Jongdae opened his mouth to retch on the grass, dry. Kyungsoo looked at the man worriedly and he thumped on Jongdae’s back even if his face clearly said, me too, and his eyes were consciously flitting to Sehun and to Jongin and to Jongdae and to the grass of the green earth. Jongin’s eyes—they were trained to Kyungsoo the entire time.

 

Jesus Christ, indeed. The loops in Jongin’s gut had yet to come undone. Mine after mine since a quarter past five this morning. It was not even close to fifteen-hundred and here they were. He turned to Sehun then, found him still out of it, staring somewhere a thousand yards away, as far as his vision could reach.

 

“Sehun,” said Jongin.

 

“Sir,” said Sehun, snapping into attention. His training first, before all else.

 

Jongin gave him a nod, a question and a permission at the same time, a chance. The moment passed and the younger soldier stood up, walking away from the three of them. Back straight once again and one of his hands was pressed near his hip as if grappling for something that was not there. Jongin, who, fundamentally, was the same, knew the other was looking for his gun, left unholstered somewhere and traded for the plow.

 

When Jongdae had calmed down, the man left Kyungsoo and Jongin too. Without a word and with only a look shot to Kyungsoo’s direction, the man was gone just like that, opposite to where Sehun had walked to minutes before. Alone, with only the two of them and their thoughts, and the electricity coursing through the thin air, and everything that was left unsaid, Jongin took a breath, asked, “Are you okay, Kyungsoo?”

 

The older man startled, looking up at Jongin like he was seeing him for the first time—and that was, with the animosity of a feral animal matched with the vindication of man. He said, “Yes,” and then, softening, “No.” His deep inhale rattled his chest, up and down with a shudder. “No, I’m—” A gulp, a swallow of pride. “Not okay.”

 

Jongin thought, _I’m sorry_ ; and he thought again, before the other was even finished, _I wish I could do something_.

 

Kyungsoo pushed himself upright and, like a stupid man with the barrel of a gun pressed against the small of his back or inside his mouth, Jongin followed. They dusted themselves off and Kyungsoo turned to him, said, “I’ll go first.”

 

The younger worried his lower lip, inquired, “Where?”

 

“Somewhere,” was the vague answer. And then, with complete hesitation—fingers wringing together—that was either towards his own words or towards Jongin’s response, he asked, “Do you want to come with me, Jongin?”

 

Jongin would have said, if he was in one of those novels he had stolen from the dead, or in one those reels he had watched about women longing for their husbands, or their partners: _With you, anywhere_. But Kyungsoo was a man and so was he, and Jongin was also a soldier, undeserving of these types of happy middles, so he replied, “If you wanted me to.”

 

Kyungsoo nodded and Jongin wondered about the silence. If Kyungsoo also wanted to say something but was, instead, eaten by the boundaries established before they had even been born, the strict confinements of abstract inevitabilities. Jongin felt the rosary around his neck burn the skin of his nape, down his chest, spreading like wild fire. A reminder—God rest his mother’s soul, he thought.

 

“It’s this way,” said Kyungsoo, already taking large steps. “Follow me.”

 

Jongin did not say anything, knowing he would do just that, anyway.

 

It was farther than he thought, was the first thing he noticed. The second thing was this—wherever it was that Kyungsoo would lead him, fast paces turning into slow treks over the uneven paths—was a secret. Something the older man held close to his chest. From where they were, currently, the village seemed to have faded away into paper, dotting the map that Jongin was picturing inside his mind. He did not know there was an off road, a few miles away from the paddy fields, hidden by a thicket of trees, green but for a few. The map shifted, just a bit, but Jongin did not file the place away, knowing how much it had meant for Kyungsoo with the way he was looking around, like he was coming home.

 

Throughout their walk, occasionally, Kyungsoo would turn to him and there was always a question on his lips. _Are you okay, Jongin? Do you need a break? Have you ever been this far away from the village? We’re almost there, just a few more minutes of walking._

 

Jongin would just nod or shake his head. Sometimes, he would tell Kyungsoo to slow down and to be careful. The older man, the last time he had done that, tripped just in time, small foot sliding on a muddy piece of jagged stone and almost falling over. Jongin had caught him on his upper arm and the man righted himself, gratitude all over the small smile on his face. When Kyungsoo turned his back, Jongin had cursed himself inwardly for not catching the other on his waist, hands on each of the gentle slope on the sides of Kyungsoo’s body. And then, when that registered, he had cursed himself again, this time with volume. 

 

His insides quaked and the bitterness was there, on the back of his throat, that Jongin was half certain he would vomit on shoes.

 

They reached a quieter part of the forest that Kyungsoo had led him into and, a little hysterical, he thought: Kyungsoo could kill him here, without anyone knowing. 

 

He watched as Kyungsoo navigated the non-existent trail expertly. Sometimes, the older man would let his fingers caress the bumpy barks of the trees. Jongin walked after him, helpless and blind, without knowing where they were going.

 

“We’re here,” Kyungsoo said. 

 

As if waking up from a dream, Jongin took in the surroundings with a deep breath. Kyungsoo sat down on the ground, uncaring of the naked soil and the sparse grass. His back was against a large tree trunk, wide and old with age. The leaves rustled above and the sunlight filtered through them, staining uneven spaces of brightness on Kyungsoo’s face and his exposed skin.

 

Jongin looked around with new eyes, inhaled the smell of the damp soil. There was a shallow trench across where they had stopped and, when he peeked down, he realized it was a stream that had dried down to practically nothing.

 

“Every summer,” Kyungsoo said. He gestured for Jongin to sit down beside him, patting the empty patch on his right. Jongin did, leaning on the trunk too. Their shoulders brushed but their thighs did not. Kyungsoo had short legs, stretched outwards. He continued, “This stream used to be popular to the villagers. We would go here when the heat was unbearable and boys and girls would play around. It felt surreal, sometimes. It had been so long ago.”

 

“Do you miss it?” Jongin asked. Nostalgia bled through Kyungsoo’s tone, exhaled between his teeth with a soft sigh. “The summers you spent here?”

 

“Yes,” said Kyungsoo. “Sometimes.” Jongin moved his head to the side, a little more, so he could see Kyungsoo’s profile clearly—the high bridge of his nose, gently rounding at the tip, the pouty lips, the jut of his cheekbones. He saw the other man’s words form, mouth moving slowly. “I came here young. When I was around seven years old. The stream was crystal clear and the water would reach my hip. I played here a lot, with Jongdae.”

 

The question was nestled on the back of Jongin’s tongue. Curiosity itched underneath his skin and his pulse was rabbiting. His teeth would have clattered if he was not clenching his jaw so tight that they were aching.

 

“You can ask,” Kyungsoo turned to him. His eyes were the color of raw honey from the sunlight above. There were flecks of light green on them, Jongin noticed, like a lone grass in the sea of almost wilting sunflowers. With a sigh, the older man added, “You seem like you’ve been dying to know.”

 

Like a soldier, Jongin decided, _fuck it,_ and asked, “Why are you and Jongdae so…” He trailed off, paused. He swallowed air and came back empty. He tried to find a word and settled lamely on—“Close?”

 

“Because we are,” replied Kyungsoo. “We were neighbors. Even before I came to this village. We were from a town, bigger and denser than this one—filled with the Japanese, unlike here, before.” Kyungsoo turned his eyes to the dried stream and Jongin wondered if that was a metaphor for something in Kyungsoo’s life. Did he feel a connection—to an old favorite that was rapidly forgotten because it had become useless?

 

Jongin took Kyungsoo in again—the man’s singularity and then, his infinite parts. He was looking somewhere far, not on the stream that had died, but somewhere else. Somewhere Jongin had been before—like all children of war. The stare was not unnerving. Kyungsoo’s throat was tight, looking like it was closed up. He wondered if the older man was still breathing.

 

“They killed our parents, you know?” Kyungsoo said, after a moment. The trees had gone quiet, like they were allowing Kyungsoo to speak, to be heard. “Jongdae and I—our parents were killed right in front of us. I was not even seven years old. Jongdae was. We were too young.” There was another pause. The tree leaves sighed, whooshed. Kyungsoo tilted his head slightly towards Jongin’s direction. The top of his head was almost falling on Jongin’s shoulder. This time, it was he who was having a hard time breathing. “Everyone was too young during wartime.”

 

“We are,” said Jongin, “products of front lines.”

 

This, he knew with increasing familiarity. Day by day, Jongin felt like he could not exist without the war. Like it was who he was. It was the war that defined Kim Jongin, stealing the person and creating a soldier out of a shell.

 

He thought of Kyungsoo, and thought of what the war had made him out to be.

 

Jongin did not ask. Kyungsoo did not answer. There was an entire universe comprising of the things that were left unspoken between the two of them.

 

He was lulled by the sound of Kyungsoo’s breathing—steady inhales and shuddering exhales, as if it was harder to let go, and easier to keep everything that was, inside. He matched the older man breath for breath and Jongin found himself feeling calm. His head was quiet for the first time in a long while. There were no explosions and, on the skin underneath his nostrils, he could not smell the pungent sulfur of gunpowder or the rust of spilled blood against mud. Instead, Jongin could smell summer, poignant but gentle.

 

After a minute that stretched into an eternity, Kyungsoo asked, “Was it true?”

 

Jongin knew what the older man was pertaining to but he was a heretic and Korean, so he threw back another question, just because. “Was what true?”

 

Kyungsoo did not seem to faze—just continued staring head on, a thousand yards away, a million. “That you burn corpses for heat?”

 

Jongin closed his eyes, opened them after letting out air. His chest felt heavy and he realized: _This was the combined weight of all my sins_. He answered simply, “Yes.” 

 

Kyungsoo let out a disbelieving laugh, and yet, to Jongin’s ears, it sounded like the older man had finally gotten the confirmation he wanted. Kyungsoo said, “They burnt our parents. Mine and Jongdae’s. They went up in flames right in front of us. I could not remember a lot but I heard screaming.”

 

Jongin watched as Kyungsoo blinked, slowly, reliving the memory that was practically forgotten, pieced together only by the bitterness and the longing. The older man added, “I imagined it, sometimes, when I was in front of the fire. What it would have felt like to suffer the same way they did.” And then, to Jongin, he asked, “Do you think it was painful?”

 

“Yes,” he answered. Jongin had a small burnt mark on his hip and it had hurt like the sorriest bitch when he got it, four years ago—fresh faced and arrogant. The arrogance had quickly faded, right after. “It was a slow pain. Scorching.” He linked his fingers above his lap, inquiring, “Were they alive when they were—that happened?”

 

Kyungsoo did not miss the hitch on his question and the other man had chanced a look at him, a brief glance that was everything, before he averted his eyes again. “I think so. I remembered my mother screaming at Jongdae and I to run. Or maybe it was Jongdae’s mother. I can’t really recall it now.”

 

Jongin thought of seven-year old Kyungsoo in the middle of all the chaos. He thought of the flickering fire playing against Kyungsoo’s skin, how big it must have been compared to a mere child. He thought of Jongdae’s words— _your horror stories are other people’s too, soldier_ —and maybe, he understood. Just a little bit. In a visceral sort of way—at the end of this, they were all the same children, anyway.

 

Kyungsoo, however, seemed like he was not yet finished. He whispered, ever so quiet that Jongin had to make an effort to listen even though his whole attention and then some were trained to Kyungsoo already, “Do you remember your parents, Jongin?”

 

The words carried with it the older man’s assumption that his parents were dead. Jongin marveled at the comedy of it all—that the safest impression was to suppose someone had been long gone. 

 

He said, “Yes. But they were hazy. Mostly, I remembered sensations. Words. Rather than what they looked like.”

 

Kyungsoo nodded and he added, “I feel guilty, you know? I was so mad about what happened to them. But the honest truth was that I could barely remember their faces except for that one photograph that I managed to save. Uncle Jung said I was clutching it when he found Jongdae and I.” A pause. It was an entire lifetime, to Jongin. “He took me in without question. He was there to get Jongdae out and Jongdae was not letting me go. So he took me in, brought me to this village. I stayed with an elder woman and we cared for each other until she passed away.”

 

Kyungsoo sighed and he slumped down on the trunk. He was no longer looking forward, but down. His hands were fisted together, Jongin noted, like he was trying hard not to break but failing. Jongin was afraid every breath Kyungsoo took would make him fall apart into tiny pieces.

 

“Wars are unkind to everyone,” said Jongin.

 

“Then why are you,” asked Kyungsoo, “A soldier?”

 

“There are things worth dying for,” Jongin smiled. This was an easy question with an easy answer. He replied, soft, against Kyungsoo’s right ear, without touching or turning around, hoping the words were heard in their quietness. “You can do a lot of things—with love.”

 

There was a stretch of silence and Jongin wondered if Kyungsoo had heard or if the older man was waiting for an answer that he had already given. He saw the man’s eyelashes flutter, thin wings spreading dark and thick against the purple bruising beneath Kyungsoo’s wide eyes. 

 

Then, Kyungsoo turned to him, with a smile that Jongin could not decipher. It was another puzzle, another collection of knotted threads his hands were too clumsy for. Riddles were easier than the small quirk of lips on the older man’s face, crooked.

 

Before Jongin could say anything, could ask anything, the other man had him underneath his hands, smoothing him all over with the yank of what he was saying. “But wars are whims of men.” A soft exhale. “You do not love a government, Jongin,” explained Kyungsoo. The smile never left his face and his fingers were drumming on his thighs, in a rhythm that Jongin could not figure out. There was a weighted pause before he added, “You love the people, the ones who make up an entire nation.”

 

Like a big joke the universe was playing, the trees rustled once more, jostling the patterns on Kyungsoo’s face. The shadows made the other man look untouchable. 

 

Jongin stared and he felt _it._ Right there. Just like that one dusky afternoon, when everything was calm and there was no ultimatum hanging over their heads, and he had read to the older man a book written in English about an escaping prisoner. 

 

Kyungsoo’s words reached out to Jongin, to the basest part of himself, deeper, and once more, a portion of something within him stirred—the one that, before Kyungsoo, he had thought of as immovable.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Shared misery, Jongin had come to learn, was like a glass of rice wine, or a blood compact.

 

The admittance was the figurative cut on the person’s skin and the story was the slow trickle of the red blood. The commemoration and the exchange were the signature on the paper and the last intake of breath was the dying whisper to finish the deal.

 

What had happened that day with Kyungsoo, with their backs against the large trunk of an old tree, was a secret between the two of them. It was intimate, in its own way—the act of baring themselves to one another in a way that neither of them had ever done. Kyungsoo made Jongin feel like he had an endless amount of skeletons to let out of, and the older man had made him feel like he wanted to talk about each of them.

 

Shared misery, he thought—amended—between the two of them was closer to a kiss than a contract. It was the tender press of lips against lips, closed mouthed and gentle. It was sensual, slow, with the crackling fire beneath their skin and the electricity in between the gap separating the two of them.

 

Kyungsoo made Jongin like this—a collection of grenades with the safety pins partially loose, all ready to be pulled any moment for multiple explosions, a destruction in the form of a man. A volatile object.

 

Jongin had never realized how much until a hot day when he had been sitting on the floor of Kyungsoo’s living room. The two of them had just finished dinner inside. Outside, the earth smells of sweet petrichor. The slight drizzle had long turned into the hard pounding of rain drops and the fall of it against Kyungsoo’s roof was loud.

 

The humidity had yet to calm down from being stifling. Kyungsoo was sprawled on the floor, fanning himself with folded pieces of paper. The man did not bother grabbing a proper fan. The rain continued falling and it drowned the sounds of their breathing.

 

Jongin was sitting down and from where he was, he could see Kyungsoo clearly. The older man had his eyes closed and his mouth was slightly parted. His pink tongue darted out to lick his lips and Jongin, out of instinct or derision, did the same. He gulped but he did not look away.

 

The rain was still blaring but the beating of Jongin’s pulse was louder. The volume was competing in his ear, trying to overwhelm the other. Jongin held himself still and his inhale was caught incomplete, air stuck inside his trachea, when Kyungsoo lied on his back. The man’s legs were stretched outwards and his thighs were opened, just a bit. It looked innocent enough but Jongin—

 

The rain was noisy and the air was hot and suffocating. Jongin did not look away.

 

He felt the beginning creeps of heat pooling low in his gut. Kyungsoo turned his head to the side, eyes still shut tight, as he fanned a breeze on the side of his neck. The column of it was pale and unblemished. There was a trickle of sweat that crawled slow from Kyungsoo’s temple down the older man’s profile. The liquid left a trace on Kyungsoo’s jaw before it made its way downwards, on that span of skin on the man’s neck, slipping underneath the top garment he was wearing.

 

The rain was noisy and the air was hot and suffocating. Jongin adjusted himself but he continued to stare.

 

“It’s so hot,” Kyungsoo whined. The last syllable broke into an almost moan. Jongin bit his lip, awaiting the end of the world that was lying on the tip of Kyungsoo’s tongue and on the plush of his lips. On the bobbing of his Adam’s apple. On the exposed skin of his thin wrist. “Why is it this hot when it’s already raining?”

 

Jongin could barely make out what Kyungsoo was saying and he strained hard to be able to understand the words coming out of the other man’s mouth. He was unsure if it was because of Kyungsoo’s tendency to speak softly or if it was because of the sound of the pitter patters of the water droplets on the roof. 

 

Or the roaring in Jongin’s ears—persistent.

 

“It’s the humidity,” Jongin answered, breathless. He did not want Kyungsoo to open his eyes and see the sins on Jongin’s face, clear as a day. “Wait the rain out and it would feel less like it was choking.”

 

Kyungsoo sighed and Jongin’s eyes almost bugged out of their sockets when the older man reached for the closed folds of his hanbok. He followed the movements of Kyungsoo’s fingers, tracing the length of the piping, before he tugged one side farther. Jongin could see more skin, pale with a little bit of flush from the warmth of the day and the slight sheen of sweat.

 

Jongin froze when Kyungsoo started touching the skin below his collar bone with little tap, taps of his index and middle finger as if he was making an effort to release the heat and the discomfort. Jongin watched as the man continued fanning himself with the folded piece of used papers. There was ink staining the tips of Kyungsoo’s fingers, just slightly. 

 

When Kyungsoo pulled the other side of his top and he could see the length of both of Kyungsoo’s collar bones, Jongin had stopped breathing all together. Kyungsoo’s chest cavity, his rib cage, were poking out of the man’s soft-looking skin. He was a little bit on the thinner side but he wore unluckiness well, by some degree.

 

The man let out a sigh, a slow stream of air that sounded like he was pleased about something. Jongin’s eyes travelled from all that skin to the older male’s face. The summer night had made Kyungsoo’s cheeks blush, red stain on the fair canvas. His lashes were pillowed on the purple bruising born from the routined early wake up calls and the nights of endless dreams. His lips were dry but they still looked as if they would feel like clouds under the pads of Jongin’s finger tips.

 

The rain was noisy and the air was hot and suffocating. Kyungsoo let out a moan when he fanned himself hard. The sharp sound whistled through the stillness of the room and neither Jongin’s thunderous pulse nor the resounding rain against the roof and the pebbled ground was enough to swallow the noise of Kyungsoo’s moan whole.

 

Jongin stood up.

 

“Where are you going?” Kyungsoo asked.

 

He looked more sinful like this—with Jongin six-foot tall above him while the older male’s back was on the wooden floor. From this high, Jongin could see the way Kyungsoo’s legs were angled apart. His thighs were spread slightly and one of his lower leg was bent at the knee.

 

“I’ll take a bath,” he answered. Breathless. He hoped Kyungsoo did not hear anything. “It is too hot.”

 

“It is,” Kyungsoo whimpered in agreement. The older male opened his eyes and he looked at Jongin. He swallowed and he inhaled air through his nose, careful not to make a sound. Kyungsoo was still staring at him and he was rooted in to the wooden floorboards, deep into the earth. The other man sighed once more, languid, and said, “Hurry up. I’d take a bath, too. I need one with this heat.”

 

Jongin wordlessly nodded and he could not muster in himself to answer properly without blurting anything that would send Kyungsoo running to his platoon and to the village chief to get Jongin shot dead or punished. Quickly, he went inside the bedroom—their bedroom, where the both of them were sleeping every night—and picked up all the necessities.

 

If he was escaping, then the knowledge was only for himself and no one else.

 

Inside the bathroom, he divested himself of his clothes quickly. When he took his mother’s rosary off, he half expected it to set him on fire from the thoughts whirling inside his head—entire storms of them, tornadoes and tsunamis, avalanches. Kyungsoo felt like a natural disaster, tonight, within the cramped confines of the small bath.

 

The first pour of the cold water seemingly sizzled on Jongin’s skin. The ice did nothing to alleviate the heat inside him. The chill stayed on the surface, quickly disappearing into vapors. The small room felt humid too—any moment and the thickness of the air would smother Jongin dead.

 

The second pour was colder than the first—the temperature of his skin was going down. Jongin continued to take calming breaths but the only place where he had wanted for the heat to be gone was still burning—hot and continuous.

 

Jongin took another inhale and he he tried to exhale it in one go, long and relaxing. When he did, the image of Kyungsoo from a while ago assaulted his senses like a plague. Jongin’s mind reeled and he felt out of balance from the sudden intrusion in his mind’s eye.

 

Within the four walls of the bathroom, Jongin could clearly see Kyungsoo’s figure lazily lounging on the floor. The older man looked so indescribable like that—like—

 

Jongin could not put it into words. The heat on his belly had migrated south, even lower. He could feel the stirrings and his cock was taking interest with the direction of his thoughts. His ears rang with the sound of Kyungsoo’s moan—that single one before he had stood up in defeat. It was low and deep, and the first biting frost that he had felt and it was the one that snaked down to his tailbone. 

 

With an involuntary shiver, Jongin grabbed his half hard cock in between his right hand and he gave it two slow pumps. The skin was only damp with the bath water that he had poured over himself less than a minute ago. He tugged on the flesh lazily and he bit his lip, trying to stop the moan from escaping his throat.

 

Jongin gave it a few more pulls and his dick grew harder under his palm. The heat had yet to subside and he leaned his free arm on the wall. The concrete was cold against his forearm as Jongin continued his movements. He allowed himself to relax—his palm was sedate, almost ghosting with how loose he was fisting his member.

 

He closed his eyes and he tried to clear his thoughts—tried to keep the fantasies at bay. Jongin’s cock hardened and he flick his index finger on the tip, leaving a phantom touch against the slit. The ultimate pleasure was in the game he was playing with himself, teasing until he could not take it anymore.

 

Jongin shut his eyes tighter and he moved his hand up and down, gaining speed. He kept his pace erratic and his bottom lip in between his teeth. He spread the pre cum from the tip down to the length, pressing hard on the slit. Jongin muffled a moan against his arm as he used the slick to glide his hand smoother on the skin.

 

Slowly, the emptiness of his mind was blanketed by the image of Kyungsoo from minutes ago. Jongin thought of the older man lying on his back and he wondered how it would feel like to lie in between those thighs—how it would feel like for the warmth from the man’s skin to burn him.

 

Jongin’s wrist jerked faster and the moan came out unbidden. It slipped out of his mouth and, distantly, he thought if the sound of the rain was enough that Kyungsoo would not hear the noises he was making. He pumped himself faster, and Jongin scraped his nail slightly on the underside of his cock, against a prominent vein. He made a high noise, keening and begging, and Jongin slowed down and gripped himself.

 

Sweat was beginning to dot his forehead and temple and he could feel it trailing down the long expanse of his back. Jongin held himself at the base tighter before he continued his hand movements. The frustration was fast to build up and Jongin’s pace turned erratic as he imagined Kyungsoo once more.

 

His hand felt like it was smaller in size and softer—less callouses. He thought Kyungsoo would take his time to unravel him, pulling him apart with every teasing stroke. He hovered his thumb above his slit, leaving a featherlight kiss from the pad of his finger to the sensitive skin. Jongin dropped his forehead on to the wall as his breathing turned ragged.

 

“Kyungsoo,” he whispered. His mind was a mess of white noise and his senses were overwhelmed. His hand was moving by itself now—rhythm gone. He could clearly see Kyungsoo imprinted on the back of his eyelids. The curved bow of his plush lips. The shape of his thighs. The inward angle of his knees, knocking together.

 

Jongin took a sharp breath and he touched himself faster. He was breathing low and hard and he could feel release coming into him. The heat that was blooming in his gut was a full fire now—wild and out of control. He shut his eyes tighter and every push and pull, there was Kyungsoo’s name being spoken like a mantra. 

 

“Kyungs—”

 

The name was cut off when Jongin came in thick spurts, hot liquid painting his stomach and his thighs. It tracked down to the floor and his drawn out moan echoed in the small bathroom. Jongin tried to silence himself, biting down on his forearm to curb the sound. 

 

When he came to, there was an imprint of his teeth on the skin near his wrist and there were strings of come on the wall in front of him. Jongin cleaned himself quick, soaping every part of his body, as the guilt weighed heavy on him.

 

The rain had yet to stop outside when Jongin finished.

 

He put the clean clothes he had brought quickly. Trousers and no shirt. The night would be warm enough with a thin blanket and nothing else on his torso. Jongin wiped himself down and when he held the rosary, he used his left hand.

 

The wood felt like it would smite him—the electrifying remnants of what he had done were gone from the spotless wall and the wet floor. Jongin slid the accessory over his head and the cross fell low on his breast bone.

 

Minutes ago, there was come where the piece of wood was lying against.

 

He exited the bathroom carrying his clothes and Jongin folded them into his own laundry basket. He made his way to the living room and he found Kyungsoo to be sitting up already, legs in a careless lotus and still fanning himself.

 

“Good bath?” The man asked.

 

Jongin felt the older male’s stare bore on him, in him, like he had known what exactly Jongin had committed. It was a little bit like committing a crime—the feeling of guilt had replaced the heat of the pleasure and the sin.

 

He nodded, answering curtly, “It was. The water is cold enough.”

 

Kyungsoo hummed and he stood up, saying, “I’m done with this weather,” before he went to their shared bedroom.

 

Jongin let his scratchy towel to lie unused around his neck, damp. His wondered if he smelled like sex. He wondered if Kyungsoo noticed the stark bite mark on his forearm, if the man had chosen to turn a blind eye. Men had needs and Jongin was the same—except for the glaring fact that, instead of soft curves and big busts, Jongin had thought of hard edges and a calloused hand, fleshy thighs and knocked knees.

 

The sound of the wooden door sliding snapped Jongin’s attention towards Kyungsoo’s coming out of their shared bedroom. Lugging around his own sleeping clothes, Jongin watched as the older man walked towards the bathroom. His hand was on his abdomen, pressing down, and he bit his lip when he noticed how Kyungsoo was already tugging the strip of cloth holding the top of his hanbok together. Before he disappeared inside the bathroom, Jongin caught the fabric cascading down on Kyungsoo’s back like a water fall—beige against the pale skin, colors distorted by the darkness and the glow of the lamp.

 

The rain was noisy and the air was hot and suffocating.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Jongin woke up to explosions._

 

_The loud booms of detonating bombs, swallowing the sounds one after the another. Each blast reverberated inside him first, the loud pounding of his heart against a too small chest, before it went to his head, the sharp pain of a goddamn headache. Sweat was beading on his temple, thick and hot, and his lungs had never hurt quite like this—as if there were burning scraps of metal inside his guts, littering his stomach with fragments of the explosives he had swallowed._

 

_Jongin’s knees shook and he thumped both of his hands against the caps, hard knocks on the bone, to keep himself upright. There was dust floating all over and his eyes were watery, unable to see from the thickness of the smoke and his own ragged breathing. The rifle in his hold was no use when it was a free-for-all—he thought he had shot someone from his own side; God rest the bastard’s damned soul. He could hear loud screaming that broke off into a choke before fading into nothing._

 

_The explosions did not stop; there was an infinity of them. Jongin thought, out of his mind with his teeth chattering as he ran through hell:_ Where the fuck are all these coming from? _He hugged the gun near his chest and he almost tripped on a dead body except the smell of it was enough to alert him, shit and rotting garbage. He kicked the corpse away and his hands were steady when he aimed, fired straight on a dead person’s skull—clean, left temple to the next. Like he was taught, Jongin closed his eyes, and fired again. The bullet lodged on the person’s stomach and this one was not on his kill count, but Jongin knew it was on his conscience. Whatever was left of it, anyway. The war had stolen a lot from him._

 

_And Jongin murmured, to a God that did not exist, digging up the bygone years of his mother’s sweet words and the wooden rosary she would worry at night, “_ Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto. Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum. _”_

 

_The last word was punctuated by his drop to the hard ground. The soil flew to his mouth and it tasted like blood and sweat, a little bit like death. In his hunger, it felt like a fucking feast. Like a wily coward, he hid, lying low on his stomach. This was the best position to pray, except he was nowhere near a church—here he was, with the explosions and the pain and the wounds and the fucking hunger. And instead of his hands clasped around the beads or the holy cross, his index finger was eager against the trigger and his gun was warm, a relief for his rapidly freezing limbs._

 

_Jongin kissed the metal, lips on the side of his rifle as his eyes were staring straight ahead, and his mouth moved, said, “_ Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo _,” just as he pulled. The bullet whizzed and he saw red and red and red, spilling over in its generosity. Jongin whispered, “_ Amen _,” and knew he was already in Hell, right that instant._

 

_The fallen body and the overbrimming of blood was interrupted by another explosion and then, one moment, he was there, and then, the next, he was not. Jongin pulled himself and he saw, with the detachment of a dead man, memories unfolding in front of his eyes—vibrant, too vibrant, when all he had ever known was the brown pigments of monochrome photographs in collective succession._

 

_He saw his mother and his mouth dropped slightly because here she was, whole and alive, and she was looking at him like she had every reason to feel pride even if there were bloodstains on his clothes and they could not afford overpriced soap from the store one street away from their tenement housing._

 

_“Jongin,” she cooed. Her hand was warm—real—against his cheek. He leaned into the touch and the longing he had felt for his mother broke free. “I miss you, son.”_

 

_He did not speak and he allowed his mother’s voice to envelop him completely. There was magic in the moment that he did not want ruined. She said, “The war will be over soon.”_

 

_Jongin nodded and he believed her once again. His mother added, “You’re going to come home, Jongin.”_

 

_And then, he felt the world fall apart._

 

_His mother was on the floor and the ground was hugged by the color red as liquid pooled in a small puddle, slowly growing in size. Jongin took a step back and all he heard where explosions, again. His entire body was trembling and his teeth were rattling. His hand was reaching for his hip but his revolver was not there._

 

_Jongin could hear the murmurs from underneath, the people he had killed were begging for mercy and another chance. They were looking at him with dead eyes, and yet it was as if Jongin could see himself on them. He wondered if this was because he was no better than corpses, one foot into his grave and a tombstone already carved with his name. He thought he was lucky, to even get one to mark his resting place._

 

_He heard the screams and his feet were bare and there were sand and soil in between his toes and his head was spinning and he felt all of his wounds being inflicted one by one, from the oldest up to the most recent, and Jongin was vibrating and he could not breathe his pulse was thundering his heart was caught in his throat he was sweating he could not think except how would he make it out alive kill or be killed Jongin wanted to come home but he could not Jongin could not breathe Jongin was burning Jongin was—_

 

The first thing that registered was his quick breath, a prayerful, “Fuck,” before he felt his left hand wrapped around something and his right hand on the revolver he had drawn underneath his pillow. In his nightmares, Jongin had placed his index finger against the trigger. With startling clarity and a heartbeat that was moving erratic, too fast for him to count, his mind supplied: _Thank fuck the gun was still as cold as a celibate virgin._

 

“Jongin,” came a choked whisper. “Jongin, you’re okay.”

 

He blinked—once, twice—and the remaining images of Chinese trenches and cinderblock apartments in dilapidated Wonsan turned dark before they came to light, vibrant as an expensive photograph. His mother’s voice was whispering in his mind, right into his ears. He heard the gunshot and then her ragged breathing. Jongin felt his hands tremble—what if. His mother had died with an undiagnosed illness, blood on her palm, and Jongin imagined himself, at this age, to be the one with the red on his hands because he had to pull the trigger, or he had to rig the grenade. 

 

“Jongin.” Another whisper.

 

He felt resisting flesh against his tight hold but his hands did not slacken. Jongin’s mind was running a mile a minute and his fingers, out of instinct and self-preservation, curled around the thin column of a neck. The person coughed, choked on nothing, as Jongin crushed his windpipe. He let the pressure build on the side first before pressing down on the middle, slowly, like a sinking weight.

 

The gun was cocked against a wriggling head and he steadied the barrel where it was. Jongin’s index finger was slotted against the trigger. One pull and he would bathe in red tonight.

 

“Jongin.” A hand raised up to his forearm, circling his wrist. The warmth jolted Jongin back and he quivered when his vision adjusted to the darkness. The moon was nowhere outside, no streams of silver light passing through the small window.

 

“Kyungsoo,” he gasped. Kyungsoo was sitting right beside him, with a calm face that was betrayed by the pink dyeing his cheeks. His eyes were watery and blown wide. The gun was pressed on his skin, above his ear, near the man’s hairline. Jongin’s hands shook again and, this time, it was with realization—fear.

 

He took his finger out of the trigger, clicking the firearm locked. His limbs lost their strength and his hand around Kyungsoo’s throat slackened and the gun was on the floor, before he knew what was happening. His heart was working overtime, eight to twenty-three hundred, but the air was too viscous for him to inhale. His teeth were clattering with how hard he was quivering, and he kept on taking shallow breaths—useless, stuck inside his throat and never reaching his flaming lungs. The night air was cold but he was sweating profusely. His insides were freezing but his skin was burning.

 

Jongin’s hand was still loose around Kyungsoo’s neck.

 

The older man took Jongin’s hand and lowered it in between them. Jongin squinted and he recoiled at what he saw—red lines on Kyungsoo’s neck. If he placed the pads of his fingers on the marks, they would fit perfectly.

 

“You’re okay,” Kyungsoo whispered again. “It was past midnight, the sixth of June 1950. You’re in my village in the middle of the border. We’re near Ongjin and Haeju, in between.”

 

Jongin took a deep breath, and another. 

 

He focused on Kyungsoo’s words. The man’s voice was deep and soft, warm like the fresh days of summer. Early morning sunlight near the beaches of Wonsan. His sisters would chase him and there would be coarse sand underneath his feet.

 

Jongin took a deep breath, and another. 

 

Kyungsoo’s hands held both of his in between the two of them. Their distance was measured by an entire lifetime, an entire history. Jongin took another deep breath and this time, it reached his lungs—it burned, but for now, it was enough. Jongin could breathe again, even if it was painful.

 

Jongin took a deep breath, and said, “I’m sorry.”

 

“You don’t have to be,” Kyungsoo whispered in the dark. He sat on his shin, the back of his thighs on top of his calves. There was an inch or so between the older man’s knees and Jongin’s skin. He was sweating still and his heartbeat had yet to calm down. Jongin could smell gunpowder and rust, iron staining his nose. Every time his chest heaved an inhale, it was in increments—one long sigh broken down into parts, too much to bear. Every exhale, his torso would quake.

 

Seconds, minutes, passed. Jongin was sitting down, staring at nothing, and his breath was coming in short gasps. His blood felt cold in his veins. “I had a nightmare,” he said. It was an explanation and an apology. The Nagant was lying on the wooden floor like an incomplete vow—he could have shot Kyungsoo.

 

“I could have shot you.” His voice was mellow, quiet. Kyungsoo leaned down just to hear what he was saying. “My finger was not straight on the barrel, Kyungsoo. It’s curled.” He bowed his head, ashamed. The reality of his nightmares came crashing down. His bare back was littered with goosebumps, as were his arms. He added—forceful, agonizingly slow, every word was a testament of his sins, “I could have killed you just like that. Without remorse. You would have a bullet through your skull and I would have blood on my hands.”

 

“But you didn’t,” said Kyungsoo. As if it was that simple.

 

Jongin saw the tremble and he took his hands from the heat of Kyungsoo’s palms. His fingers twitched as if missing what was not his to miss, from the very beginning. He linked his hands with one another, holding himself tight. Any moment now, he would break. 

 

“I didn’t,” he replied harshly. “But I could have.” And then, the sharp reminders of his dreams—the death, the fires, his mother, the smell of blood—was this: that Jongin was a soldier. He continued, “I could have killed you the way I killed others before you. You’d be another count among hundreds. Maybe thousands. I don’t count the ones I stuffed with hand grenades and land mines.”

 

From his periphery, he saw Kyungsoo shiver. The older man’s lips were worried in between straight teeth. “You didn’t, Jongin,” he repeated, insisted. He was not sure who the other man was convincing—himself, or Jongin. “The important thing is I’m alive. As you are, too.” 

 

Jongin shook his head—this man was unbelievable.

 

“Did you know, Kyungsoo,” he laughed, short and jagged. “That it was my bullet who killed people? I’ve killed men. Women. The disabled.” His chest was tight and the silence was deafening. Neither of them made any noise. Neither of them breathed. Jongin’s sins lied heavy in the air—Hell, he knew, was a place on earth where he was. “I’ve killed children, too, sometimes. I only knew after, when the cloud was gone. The smoke does a pretty good job of hiding all the damned things I’ve done.”

 

He heard Kyungsoo took a cutting inhale, deep and excruciating, but his mouth had already been open. He felt like he could not stop. The room was sinking down in size, from all directions. It was cramped and he was reminded of the one and only time he went to confession—years ago, a school boy impulse that had him kneeling and praying to another person. He said, “In the war zone, none of it mattered. You take the lock off of the bomb and you run the fuck away.”

 

Another infinity and Jongin knew this would be another one—one of those that they had left unsaid, allowed to drift away before ultimately turning into ashes.

 

Kyungsoo edged closer. Jongin let him.

 

And then, to his surprise, Kyungsoo spoke. “There are good things and there are good men.”

 

He felt his world tilt at the older man’s remark. Kyungsoo kneeled up, like he was the one praying in front of him, like Jongin was the man he was praying for. Jongin knew Kyungsoo had never prayed, not the way he and his family had done. The other man reached his hand upwards, right next to Jongin’s cheek. In the darkness, he could see the man craving for his permission.

 

Jongin was—Jongin was so tired.

 

He held Kyungsoo’s wrist, encircling it with his fingers. His hand was shaking badly when he pressed the warm palm on the clammy skin of his face. Jongin leaned into the touch, and he felt the tender heat of summer. From his cheek, down to the side of his neck, to his stomach, to his legs, until the tips of his toes were tingling. Kyungsoo felt like summer, tonight, and Jongin was not letting go, even for a moment.

 

He leaned in and the older man did too. Jongin let the silence envelop the distance between their faces. Kyungsoo chased after him, hand brushing on the underside of his jaw. Jongin was still holding Kyungsoo’s wrist and his pulse was running fast.

 

Jongin could feel his heart stuttering. It was going haywire alongside the explosions from his memories, traveling down to his guts. His throat was tight and he felt it close up. Jongin watched as Kyungsoo blinked almost sleepily. His eyelashes did not flutter as much as they danced. If Jongin paid attention, if he had not been as overcome with the sensations hitting him from all sides and the walls sinking down on him, he could count each lash with the borderline nonexistence of their proximity.

 

He moved his head closer and their noses were too close, almost touching. A hair’s breadth and the tips of their noses would kiss. An inch, and their lips would. Jongin’s heart was beating fast from the leftover adrenaline of his nightmares. In Kyungsoo’s hold, it accelerated even more. It was pounding hard in his chest cavity, threatening to break his ribs and his skin to crawl out and lay itself bear in front of Kyungsoo’s eyes.

 

The older male looked like what was happening was unbelievable. Jongin shared his sentiments wholeheartedly. His eyes dropped to Kyungsoo’s lips, slightly pouted already. It was inviting—it looked like it would welcome Jongin home. His stomach was churning with anticipation and vague unease. Anxiety spiked in his veins and his blood ran cold, wintry.

 

His skin was still warm and he was still sweating. Kyungsoo was staring at him like he was asking for permission—or waiting to be asked one.

 

Jongin moved his head, just enough that there would be a distance between the two of them. He held Kyungsoo’s hand against his face still. He leaned his forehead against the older man’s, careful that nothing else would touch. Direct physical contact felt like a paradox with the tension hovering over the two of them.

 

“Jongin,” said Kyungsoo—silent but for a sigh. His breath mingled with Jongin’s, hitting the skin of his face. It tickled. “I think, you’re one of the good men forced to do bad things.”

 

It was instant.

 

Jongin felt the wetness on his eyes before it slowly trickled down. Kyungsoo put his other free hand on his cheek, cradling his face like it was the most important thing in the entire world. 

 

That part of Jongin that he had previously thought of as immovable, stalwart, crumbled in the period of a moment.

 

He tightened his grip around Kyungsoo’s wrist and he wound his other hand to the older man’s free wrist. He pushed down the man’s hands on his face and he felt thumbs caressing the skin where his cheekbones had jutted out. Kyungsoo murmured words but Jongin’s ears were ringing. He was shaking violently and his silent cries turned into sobs, breaking the silence of the air.

 

He held on, clenching around Kyungsoo’s hands. It was borderline aching but he did not care—anything less than a bruising grip, Jongin would fall apart underneath Kyungsoo’s fingertips.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The next time he opened his eyes, Jongin almost jolted when he felt a body against his—alive and warm, not like the cold corpses that would litter the ground on the front lines where they had been forgotten. He moved slightly and he heard the body make a tiny whining sound. He froze.

 

He was lying inside Kyungsoo’s short arms. His face pressed against the man’s jugular and the pitter patters of the older man’s pulse were claps of thunder in his ears, loud and booming. Jongin took a deep breath and he inhaled the scent of summer, damp grass and palm-sized nectarines that had barely ripened, crisp and with a bitter aftertaste.

 

Kyungsoo’s hands were buried in his hair, the pads of his fingers were on his scalp. Jongin remembered sensations—the strands of his hair being pushed back, bony digits combing through sections. He remembered the sounds of soft crooning, gentle and slow, gradual in its progression that the song could have just been made entirely of bridges, never reaching the climax. One moment, Jongin was wide-awake, chasing the tail ends of his nightmares, and the next moment, his eyes were closed and there was nothing but peaceful darkness and silence. 

 

He did not dream last night, he thought. Instead, Jongin had been aware of the shallow breathing and the limbs around him. Kyungsoo’s ribs were protruding, and the hard planes of it were uncomfortable. His temple was on the older man’s sternum. Every ridge—every hollow—of Kyungsoo’s torso was branded on his skin.

 

Jongin’s hand was resting on the jut of Kyungsoo’s hip. His fingers were curled lightly, over the man’s clothes, and every fiber of the cotton was rough under his palm. Imaginary water rushed to Jongin’s lungs when he tried to pull away, only for the older male to pull him back.

 

“ _Motherfucker_ ,” he sighed, resigned. Kyungsoo’s hands were on his hair. Kyungsoo’s skin was within the distance of his lips. Kyungsoo’s legs were tangled with his. There were mottled purple painted on the length of Kyungsoo’s neck, shaped like fingers. The edges were already starting to become yellow. Guilt drowned him fast, and he wondered what it would feel like—to press a butterfly from his lips to the bruised skin, to see if it would heal in a heartbeat.

 

And then, with fear, he whispered again, “What the fuck am I thinking.”

 

With timid hands, careful and tender, he reached upwards and pried Kyungsoo from where the man had latched his limbs. He moved downwards, wriggling until his head was no longer pillowed on top of a boney arm. Jongin heaved a breath and he detached his legs from where the older man’s thighs had caught it in between his. The brush of their legs sent shock straight to his gut and Jongin felt nausea build up, the humming of thin wings turning into large tropical storms.

 

He stood up quietly, but quickly, and it took him a minute before it sunk in: the sunlight was coming in thick streams through the window and his skin was on fire from where Kyungsoo had touched him, everywhere and nowhere at all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Jongin breathed in dust, fine and powdery. It threw constellations all over his throat, down his windpipe, before it exploded inside his lungs. The heat was heavy and the temperature held him down where he was. In the height of summer, he and some of his boys were clustered around their makeshift artillery, cleaning guns.

 

They were unused—still, thankfully—but Jongin had always instilled in him and the men under his command the importance of always being ready to grab a firearm and just shoot. He opened the cylinder, pushing it down, and he took one of the rags to carefully wrap the rear end. He made a tight knot and grabbed the thin brush inside the cleaning kit.

 

Jongin dipped it into the solvent and he fed the brush into the barrel, allowing it to twist in his grasp and follow the rifling along the curve of the long opening. The method was familiar—five years in the making until the novelty wore off into the mundane everyday. Jongin took his time, slow and purposeful with every stroke of the brush inside.

 

The sound of it calmed him down, lulled him into an almost sleep. The noises of his men were quiet murmurs despite the boisterous volume. Jongin lived within a set of routines, undisturbed concretes of the day to day, unchanged in the manner of years. Off the front lines, away from the ringing gunshots and pulling civilian hair from their scalps with dirty fingers, he had lived the way he had used to breathe—had desired to breathe ever since—with the clarity and the rhythm of a steady metronome, devoid of disrupted silences from detonations and trundling tanks.

 

He pulled the brush clean, one single noise a sharp whistle among the din of lazy chatters. The bristles came out no worse than they had been before, a testament of the languid month they had spent idle in the countryside village. Gunpowder was only loose on skin after someone had played around with the trigger, happy. 

 

Jongin ghosted his fingers along the covered cylinder; the bullets in front of him were winking from the glare coming outside of the shack. His boys were horsing around but he did not exactly care. Someone almost tipped one of their boxes of ammo. He continued cleaning with a patch soaked light with solvent. The sunlight made rainbows, refracting over the infinite dust moated all over the warm summer air.

 

“Senior Lieutenant,” someone hooted. He turned around, recognizing the boy—everyone was a boy until they had killed someone, and this one had never seen actual battle. He knew his name was Baekhyun, from somewhere around Sinuiju, and the son of a bitch was stuck here with the rest of their sorry existence because his father was in the military. 

 

“What’s it, Byun?” Jongin took the cleaning patch he had been using, inspected the fabric carefully, before he picked another one so he could repeat the process once more. The smell of solvent clung to the air in sharp pungency, painting its scent around Jongin’s nostrils.

 

“None of us have heard any gossip about you, forgive my French—”

 

“You don’t know French—” Another soldier interrupted. A mousy male that was thin as a stick that Jongin had wondered what the fuck the KPA had been doing, stealing young boys who looked like they would break down at the sound of a gun’s latch coming undone.

 

“It’s an expression!” Baekhyun huffed. Jongin, a little amused, allowed them their fun. His subordinate turned to him with a malicious face, features pulled tight with an impish expression. His downturned mouth was pulled upwards and his narrow eyes were twinkling. His hands were dark with grease, staining long fingers and blunt fingernails. The boy continued, “Anyway, Sir, we’ve heard no gossip about you fucking any of the women in this blessed Hell hole.”

 

The first thing that Jongin thought was—that was contradictory. There was no Hell that was blessed—even those with blooming fires and constant debauchery, no matter how much his men would have considered that the closest thing to Heaven. The second was, why a woman, specifically. And then the third—

 

“Is that what got all of your panties’ in a twist? Gossiping like laundry maids?” He shot a warning glance at Baekhyun and the man blanched, probably out of instinct. In the five years, Jongin had learned that army boys were the easiest to scare and threaten—childhood instincts kicking in, the cold imprints of their fathers’ punishments burning hot like freshly lit coal against their skin. Curtly, he continued, “I’m not here to take advantage of some poor village girl.”

 

“Hey, Sir, no,” the boy raised his hands in a losing gesture. Jongin had seen it a thousand times in and out of the fighting zone. “I just meant, I did not expect you to go this long without having some girl in between your sheets.” Baekhyun gave him a lascivious stare that could have meant a million things, none of which were for polite company. Being a soldier, he had no qualms about speaking it out loud, “No pretty fellas tripping over themselves for your stoic yes? To grease the bolts of your gun, Sir?” 

 

The rest of the soldiers laughed at that—high pitched giggles that shattered whatever was left of Jongin’s imaginary peace. He took the cleaning patch out, and he set it aside. He unwrapped the rag from the rear end. He saw some of the men gulp, turning their eyes.

 

A brave soul asked, Taeyong, younger than Jongin when he had volunteered. There was a youthful pride on the other male’s face, the one that said he had not seen things he should not be proud of, yet. He was playing with his gun, finger curled around the trigger. Jongin did not bother to correct him—let the bastard learn from his own ignorance. 

 

Taeyong mockingly sneered at no one in particular, “Maybe Senior Lieutenant Kim can’t fist a lady when he was living with that farmer. What’s his name? That slip of a thing with wide eyes and lips for cock sucking?”

 

Jongin felt his insides burn and a lesser man would have been blood red in the face. The air was suddenly stifling. The eyes of his men were trained at him, expectant and amused, ready for the delivered punchline. The joke here, in their haphazard artillery, was Jongin—

 

Jongin, who had thought of Kyungsoo that way, who had thought of Kyungsoo more than that. 

 

It sent ice from the uppermost bone of his spine, below his nape, to the lowermost knob. The freeze hugged his tailbone before it spread outwards, to his abdomen and rising to his chest. It felt like winter in Hell—cold shivers and burnt scars at the same time. The drop and the desperation was like drowning—his feet were trying to find the bottom of the sea, only to realize there were more water, and more water, and more water, and he was just going to die like that, helpless and second by second of deprivation felt through every salt he had inhaled and swallowed.

 

“Taeyong,” someone barked, sharp and loud. There were traces of laughter in the half-formed reprimand. “Someone would have shot you point blank if they heard that.”

 

The boy shrugged and his jawline caught the reflection of the sunlight on the sheen of the firearms—gunmetal alloy, bronze and zinc on their tongues. The shadow was cutting, highlighting the relief with careful attention. Listless, Taeyong said, “If they have seen Senior Lieutenant Kim’s housemate, they would tell me I was right.” He turned his head towards Jongin, his features held all the sincere earnestness of a mindless newborn puppy. With a bat of his eyelashes, as if seeking for approval, Taeyong tried to reaffirm, “Am I right, Sir?”

 

Jongin steeled himself—soldier boy tangling amidst the threads holding the skeleton of a person together. There were things that Jongin could openly admit and then there were those that he could not even acknowledge, did not even want to acknowledge. There were things he kept close to his chest—war time secrets of spilled blood and wasted life, atrocious kill counts steadily rising—and there were things that had made his chest ache with the sheer weight of his non admittance.

 

With the guns and his own men as his witness, Jongin said, “I never noticed,” before he returned his attention to the revolver in his hand. His fingertips ghosted along the cylinder, rolling it a millimeter, and he thought about Kyungsoo’s pair of lips, pink and soft-looking. 

 

The bow of it, the small peek of tongue, would bring to Jongin his downfall.

 

There were murmurs of assent within their group and every nod, his ribs were breaking—bone by bone, like it was being stepped on. The weight was too much to bear when everything was almost hollow, like the doors of the offices inside the army base belonging to men without the gold pinned on their uniforms. Those were the simpler days and they had seemed so far away now—Sehun had knocked three times and Jongin had answered.

 

“Nah,” someone said. Jongin peeked and saw Ilsung, a non commissioned officer with a knack for long distance shooting and modified rifles, with a twist of a smirk on his lips. His right leg was bent upwards and the left was stretched out. 

 

“I’ve seen him. Do Kyungsoo, boys—that’s Senior Lieutenant’s housemate’s name. Nothing goes out of this fucking room, this fucking village, but I’d honest to God fuck the man. Have him on his back or on his knees. Those lips are worth getting shot for.”Ilsung’s hand was relaxed as he caressed the length of the gun on his side. He licked his lips and his eyelids momentarily fluttered.

 

The din started to turn into something more curious. There were two or three men hooting. Amidst the noise, Jongin remained frozen as if a single breath and his secrets would pour over like the blood of the people he had killed, punctured major artery creating red showers. His soldiers were getting rowdier, more vulgar.

 

“Would you shove your dick inside a man’s ass?” Someone asked.

 

“When there are no women left in the world, I just might,” was one of the answers. “If I’m horny like a motherfucker then I got no questions,” was also another.

 

“My dick’s dry and about to fall off, buddy. In the middle of Hell, you got no room to be picky,” was one of Jongin’s favorites.

 

As well as: “A hole is a hole when it’s dark enough.” And then someone’s interjection, “I’ve seen the man’s lips and let me tell you this—that’s one amazing hole if I have ever seen one.”

 

Baekhyun looked at him and Jongin returned the stare back. In this room, he was the predator, the leader. Alpha male. Except the other soldier had curled his right hand in a lose circle and had made a crude gesture in front of his mouth, to the snickers of the rest of the men.

 

Jongin was stretched thin and pulled taut when Byun asked, “How about you, Sir? Would you let another man suck your dick?”

 

He would have floundered but Jongin did not. The revolver was dismantled still. It would not take him two minutes to put it together and clock it to Baekhyun’s direction. It would take him less than a second to pull. Direct insolence resulting in violence would not get him turned off from the army, especially in these crucial months. 

 

He said, with a grin and a raised eyebrow, “That’s disgusting.” He scoffed and he was thankful that the puff of air did not bring with it the truth. In his mind, his fingers were trembling. In reality, they were steady and warm at the tip. He hummed thoughtfully, fake, “There would be less hair to grab but if it is dark and I got nothing then who are men to judge? They would all be moaning at the end of the night.”

 

Most of his men whooped and someone had the audacity to whistle high, dragging the note, impressed and approving. Someone raised the pistol they were cleaning as if in a toast, said, “If the night would end, Sir.”

 

The other soldier on that person’s right clapped him on the shoulder, remarked in a sly voice, “I’m sure it would. It’s some fun between friends. Make someone your bitch for the night and get it done and over with.”

 

There were more sounds of agreement and Jongin’s insides were churning in discomfort. His forehead were beaded heavy with bullets of sweat. For the first time, his mother’s rosary hung around his neck, light and almost forgotten. He twisted the cylinder of the Nagant in between his forefinger and his thumb. Kyungsoo flittered across his mind like thick smoke, choking him with his cloying presence. 

 

Unwelcome. New. Frightening.

 

After all, it was one thing to want to fuck a man in the middle of war, another warm body at night or in the early throes of dawn, and another to want to cradle him inside your arms and kiss him tenderly, like it was the first and the last time.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Two things. 

 

Jongin knew he was made up of two things. His mother’s religion was one. The military was the other. Kim Jongin was an empty shell filled with doctrines—first, from a God he had ceased to believe in, and second, from the many officers, screwed up chains of commands and warring agendas. He was one of the puppets, another porcelain doll that was easily broken and disposable among the selections. A current favorite, yes, but nothing would last. Jongin would fail one of these days until even his owners would render him useless and break him themselves.

 

Such was the fate of people like Jongin—unthinkable lifetime of horrors culminating into a dumpster of dirty garbage, washed up chrome plates and dented armors, obsolete firearms and weaponry, the smell of shitty lives and memories.

 

The sun was hot on his back as he stared at somewhere he did not know. Time was nonexistent in this place of the village—Kyungsoo’s low wooden daybed in the middle of his small courtyard, overlooking the entirety of an unknown that even he had given up on mapping with his stare. Everything stretched towards an infinite horizon, with the fissures of the mountain running an interlude.

 

It was beautiful, in a peaceful sort of way. Novel for someone like Jongin. Practically a mystery.

 

“Do Kyungsoo,” he whispered. The sigh left softness on his tongue, air on the skin between his lips. Kyungsoo’s name was a light exhale, the first breath in his words. His mouth formed a circle before his teeth ate the second syllable, pulling the sound with little difficulty to the roof and back to his throat. It came out raspy, but nevertheless quiet. He sounded like he had just woken up, even if it was past lunch time already. He repeated, testing the give of the generous name, “Kyungsoo. Kyungsoo.”

 

And then, “Kyungsoo,” before he sighed. Four times was more than enough—was too much by four counts already, out loud. The wind stole the sounds from his lungs and his ears that he could pretend, for a while, that he did not hear anything and that he had never said it in the first place. The name was pretty on his tongue and it was prettier when spoken with a full sound.

 

He was getting good at pretending, he thought.

 

Jongin was at odds, disgusted with himself and with his thoughts. This was worse than his nightmares. At least, those gave him guns and blood, and more often that not, death. Jongin was familiar with those. He had lived it for five years, had born the ringing screams of men and women and the small hands of children clutching his uniform as they begged for their lives.

 

This one did not have any firearm. There was no death, or screaming, or empty trenches and emptier tables, chairs that were unoccupied and would remain to be, until the end of time. This one just had Kyungsoo and Jongin—but it was scarier.

 

This was another kind of horror story altogether that Jongin was left blind and deaf and mute and unfeeling. The sun stung his exposed skin with a jolt of a reminder. Jongin, sometimes, felt like he was being eaten alive by time. He was a forgotten relic that was left behind somewhere to rot, even if he was not even over twenty-five. The heat was the punctuation of his day; Jongin loved summer precisely because he had never felt more alive than when he was under light of the sun.

 

With an ache in his chest, Jongin’s back hit the wide platform of the daybed with a long sigh. His feet were firm on the ground like an anchor, his lower limbs hanging loosely over the edge. Jongin let the streams of warmth paint him in gold and he craned his head to the side, looking at nothing, so the brightness was filtered from his eyes and was instead hitting his profile, hot on his jaw and his neck, down to his exposed collarbones.

 

The wood of his mother’s rosary was a constant around his neck.

 

His hand reached towards the cross and it was so small between his thumb and forefinger. Its finish was smooth, varnished dark. There were parts where the cherry red had faded into something lighter. His mother would fret the rosary at night, murmuring and crying prayers for her family. Maybe the discoloration was from his mother’s tears. Jongin would never know; his mother was not here to answer his queries.

 

He rolled on to his back—the harsh glare of the sun had been softened by the blanket of clouds. Jongin removed the accessory and he lifted the cross towards the sky, displaying it in front of his face. It casted a shadow on his face as the beads dangled, following even his slight movement. He was probably unworthy to hold and wear this, if he could care enough. If it meant enough.

 

“You’re just a necklace,” he said to no one. To the rosary. He felt like he was going insane—talking to an inanimate object that was the symbol of a make-believe being. “And yet…” He trailed off. The wood seemed to wink at him in a way that only metal could. It was mocking.

 

He scoffed, “I am a sinner.” Jongin paused, angling the cross to the left. “What was one more sin, right?” He brought the cross closer. It weight practically nothing. The beads seemed to burn his skin from where they were making contact. 

 

“I know that,” he whispered. A breeze blew and its whistle drowned the sound of his confession. “This is just another sin among all the coffins that I have collected. I don’t even believe in You.” There was a hint of whine on his voice as he rubbed the wood between the pads of his fingers. “You have done nothing for me and for my country. I don’t believe in You. But a small part of me is still wishing You are—real. True.” 

 

Jongin heaved a sigh. He felt silly. The sun was slowly coming out of the clouds but he continued. His words were muffled by the ramming of his heartbeats, this time. 

 

“I have stolen. I have killed. There is nothing in the Your long fucking list of commandments that I have left untouched. But I could not bring myself to—” He sucked in a deep breath and Jongin suddenly realized how painful it was. To breathe. Or not to. It drew a sharp line down to his lungs before it pooled there, heavy. “—accept. What is happening. What has already happened. I think of him and I don’t know—”

 

Jongin let out a frustrated noise, guttural and low. He let the rosary drop from his loose fingers down to his chest. It pressed against his heart and he knew how light it was, how weightless, and yet, it felt like he was under a large rubble or an entire army tank. 

 

With a derisive chuckle, he said, “Is this what praying feels like? It’s stupid, that’s what it is.” The only time he had tried it and here he was, mocking the entire foundation. “No wonder You got nonbelievers in the time of war. You don’t fucking answer anything.”

 

Jongin closed his eyes—they felt hot—and the light of the sun filtered past his eyelids. He could see oranges and red and green dancing in the darkness. His eyelashes were damp and he closed his eyes tighter. The rosary was lying on his torso and the beads tickled the side, falling perfect on the hollow between two of his ribs.

 

“Jongin?”

 

He heard. He opened his eyes, a little startled, and his vision was blurry at first that he had to blink multiple times. When it cleared, it was filled with Kyungsoo’s face. He was infinitely larger than the cross he had been holding a while ago. With his shadow, he created a fraction of a night that enveloped Jongin completely.

 

“What’s it?” He tried to sound nonchalant. His hands were sweating and he fisted them at his sides. His back felt like it was sticking to the the daybed.

 

“I heard you talking to yourself,” Kyungsoo offered. He was bent low so his face was in Jongin’s line of sight. There was a twist on his lips and there was concern in his tone and his irises. The rosary progressively got heavier, almost burying Jongin. 

 

“Just thinking out loud.” He was grateful his voice did not shake.

 

Kyungsoo hummed, a deep sound from the back of his throat. The note extended, calm and unobtrusive. The older man asked, with a small smile, “What were you thinking about?”

 

In another world, Jongin would have answered, “You,” and the corners of his lips would twitch first before they bloomed into a large grin, all teeth. In another world, Kyungsoo would have laughed and he would call Jongin out for being silly before he lied beside the younger.

 

In another world, the afternoon would pass like that. The sun would disappear and the skies would shift from the light azure to the shades of oranges before turning into indigo. The moon would have been whole and the silver would kiss Kyungsoo’s skin beautifully.

 

But that was that and this was this—Jongin, in reality, replied, “Nothing. Just random things. I was just bored.”

 

The rosary was at its heaviest, threatening to sink Jongin through the wooden daybed and into the ground.

 

In this world, Kyungsoo did not lie down next to him. Their thighs did not brush nor did the backs of their hands. The older man sat down beside him and Jongin knew there was a considerable distance. The air crackled and Jongin might have imagined this, but the ground smelled with petrichor. Jongin was the rain and Kyungsoo was the long summer, warm and pleasant.

 

“Jongin,” Kyungsoo spoke up again. He was hesitant and timid, to Jongin’s ears. 

 

“Hm?” Jongin turned his head to Kyungsoo’s direction. The older man was not looking at him but ahead. His eyes were occupied with the sight of Kyungsoo’s back. His spine was protruding slightly; the thin cotton of his hanbok molding around each knob until mid-back before it curved down. 

 

“We-we’re good, right?” 

 

Jongin noticed the hitch on the rise and fall of Kyungsoo’s shoulders when the man had stuttered. He did not say anything about it, choosing instead to reply, “Yeah. We’re fine, Kyungsoo.” He inhaled air, stale and bitter on his tongue, dry and humid against his lips. He added, tried to make it sound like he was teasing, “Why would we not be?”

 

Kyungsoo laughed a little. It sounded forced. The older man repeated, “I just thought—when you had that nightmare but… You’re right. Why would we not be?”

 

Jongin closed his eyes again and Kyungsoo disappeared into the darkness. Underneath his feet, Jongin felt a thin fissure slowly break the even ground. He wondered when it would happen—the destructive earthquake that was hanging in between the narrow crack.

 

 


	4. and there he was, with summer

Jongin was a liar. That much, he knew.

 

He told Kyungsoo that it was fine—that everything was okay.

 

More than a liar, he thought he was a dreamer. A delusional man insane with his daydreams.

 

It was impossible that nothing had changed. He had never pulled the pin out and the safety lever off of a live grenade that left ground zero, at least thirty meters in radius, untouched and unbothered. If there was something that Jongin had learned in the time of war, it was that nothing would ever be the same once a person had breathed life into it.

 

That was what Kyungsoo had done—breathed life into Jongin.

 

He felt more alive, like he was not just a floating existence amidst other people. Jongin lived in conjunction with Kyungsoo, two independent clauses. The weeks they had known each other quickly disappeared not in the count of days but with the count of moments they had shared with each other.

 

It scared Jongin shitless, frankly.

 

Every time that Kyungsoo would be in the same room as he was, he would withdraw inside his shell, leaving Kyungsoo confused and hanging. Jongin felt bad when the older man’s face would fall down from the turn of his lips, obviously unhappy and discontent.

 

He wanted to put a smile on that mouth but Jongin was a coward too, on top of being a liar and an insane man.

 

He tried to pull out the soldier that Kyungsoo had worked so hard to peel away with his words and his actions and he had managed a short, “Good morning,” everyday. It sounded cold even to his ears and the next words he would say to the older man were only out of necessity. If he could manage a nod, Jongin would settle for that instead.

 

Sometimes, he would leave Kyungsoo alone before the older man had even finished bathing himself. Minutes before the clock hit six in the morning, Jongin would have found himself something to do outside the house. He would pack a quick breakfast before he headed outside. The fields were quiet when the sun had barely risen.

 

The confusion in Kyungsoo’s eyes had turned into exasperation. And exasperation turned into resignation before the older man had looked into Jongin with cool indifference on his soft features.

 

Jongin’s breathing would become shallow at the sight of it but he supposed this was what he had wanted all along. Their words had vanished into thin air alongside the seconds they would share. He felt like he was living a life without Kyungsoo, or some paper version of the other man—a caricature out of the empty vessel from whom the man he had known was housed into.

 

Jongin had never realized how fragile their connection was until he severed it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Inevitability rushed past like a freight train. Jongin looked at Kyungsoo and he would _see_ the other man and it scared him.

 

Kyungsoo and what he represented sent shivers down Jongin’s entire body. Every fiber of his being was reacting in fright, with the need to flee. It was a fight or flight scenario and there was no part of him—not even an infinitesimal portion—that wanted to take the figurative bull by its figurative horns. Jongin was a soldier, yes, but he was not a stupid man.

 

So he ran. And he hid himself in the middle of the crowd. The best place to hide a tree was in the forest, he had grown to know.

 

Like now.

 

The town hall was teeming with people of all ages. Kids were running around the place and the elders were mingling among themselves. Someone had brought a board game that he was not familiar with and there was a commotion building up around one of the tables. Jongin was sitting quietly on his, hands on top of his right knee that was crossed over the left.

 

It was the village chief’s daughter’s birthday celebration. Twenty-one years old, he had heard. Entirely too young to be caught in the middle of _this,_ Jongin had thought. Her name was Soonyoung and he had spotted her flitting from people to people. Her hanbok was beautifully done. The embroidery must have costed a lot. Jongin could not help but scoff at the thought of spending an amount that some of the guests in attendance barely made in a month.

 

He saw Soonyoung again and he eyed the way she bent low to talk to one of the kids. She stuck out like a sore thumb, an expensive doll amidst wooden decorations, cheap and poorly made.

 

Jongin averted his eyes and tried hard not to seek Kyungsoo. He had not seen him since the two of them had arrived together. The older man was accosted by Jongdae before he could even say a word. It was all good for him, though. He did not need to make an excuse to keep himself away.

 

“Enjoying the birthday party so far?” Sehun sidled up to him. He was red in the face and his lips looked swollen and bitten. Jongin could see traces of sweat on the man’s temple and a mark low on his jugular, partially hidden by the neckline of his shirt, imprints of teeth and clotting.

 

“Not as much as you had,” Jongin replied dryly. Sehun huffed a tiny chuckle before he sat down next to him. He scooted his chair closer and crossed his legs. The younger rested his elbow on the table and rested his face on top of his palms. There was a smirk playing on his lips. His foot bumped into Jongin’s lightly.

 

“You know how it is. Booze ’n’ bitches,” Sehun drawled lazily. Jongin knew, of course, but not in the past month and some weeks. Not when—

 

“I’m not as bad as you are, Oh,” he retorted.

 

Sehun rolled his eyes and he lolled his head on his palm. His eyes were piercing when he whispered, “You are as bad as I am, Sir. We even used to share.”

 

Jongin grimaced at the reminder. In war time, no one cared on who had been with who as long as there was another person to tumble in the sheets together. A little grab and a little share here and there would not hurt anyone.

 

He did not answer and Sehun’s stare had become more unnerving. The man always looked like he knew secrets that he should not. Jongin had never liked being scrutinized, much less by Sehun.

 

Jongin turned his head away and he caught Soonyoung staring at his direction. She was clustered around a group of girls. The dyes of her clothes were stark against the plain white and the shades of brown from the women around her. Perhaps that was the point. She was a flower in the middle of an endless plane of mud. There was a small pin that glimmered in between the strands of her ink colored hair.

 

He smiled and tipped his head to the side, as polite as he could be. Her group tittered and Jongin shook his head. One of Soonyoung’s friends shoved her elbow into the celebrant’s and there was a pleasant flush high on the apple of her cheeks. It was a lovely color of pink, close to the sheen of Soonyoung’s thin lips.

 

“I see,” Sehun sneered. Jongin turned his attention back to his second-in-command. The younger man’s teeth was white and straight, apparent with the wideness of his teasing grin. His chin had edged out even more than what it was, normally.

 

“There was nothing to see,” Jongin sighed. And that was the truth. There was nothing to see when the person he had wanted to take a glance at was missing. Practically disappeared with Jongdae doing God knows what. God probably did not want to know, Jongin thought grimly. What if they were like _that—_ Jongdae and Kyungsoo.

 

Jongin felt the stirrings of green clouding the borders of his vision before a shock rippled through him. He imagined the two other men in each other’s embrace, maybe doing more. He imagined the sounds Kyungsoo would make underneath Jongdae. Would the two of them lie the same way a man and a woman were wont to do? 

 

Instead of disgust, Jongin felt—

 

Jongin felt envy. 

 

His stomach was stirring and tumbling out of thin air, threatening to burst and spill all of his guts on the gray cement. He bit his bottom lip and tried to stop the grimace from forming. Jongin looked at Sehun and he could see the younger man observing his expression.

 

The man’s sharp jaw was clenched and through gritted teeth, he said, almost ordered—defiant of rank and position, “Go talk to the village chief’s daughter. Flirt. Booze and bitches, Jongin.” With a dark smile, flinty and forced, Sehun added, “If you have to fuck her to get whatever it is out of your system, then do so.” A pause before, a deliberately slow and insolent, “Sir.”

 

Jongin swallowed the lump stuck in his throat and it was a little like swallowing his heart whole.

 

 

* * *

 

He found Soonyoung near the back of the building. The hall was quiet from here and it was just a stretch of grass overlooking a thicket of trees that slowly disappeared into the nighttime chill. The sounds were muted by the walls and Jongin saw the woman with colored paper stuck around her hair, clicking on the softness of her face and trailing on the sliver of skin that the high neck of her hanbok had exposed.

 

“Senior Lieutenant Kim!” Her eyes widened in surprised. Under the light of the lamp post a few feet away, they were glittering. She pried the paper from her skin, probably decorations hanging all over the celebration hall. “I didn’t expect to run into you here.”

 

“Just getting some air,” he said. As if remembering, Jongin added, “Happy birthday, Soonyoung. I supposed I did not greet you properly a while ago.”

 

She colored at that, mumbled, “Thanks,” before looking down on the tips of her shoes. They were pristine and white, unlike most of the pairs owned by the common women in the village. Jongin watched the length of the woman’s fingers as she smoothed her hair on the left side of her face. There was nothing to fix—everything remained within the confines of her tight bun. The accessory pinned on her hair were a cluster of flowers made with plastic beads, probably bought somewhere outside the village.

 

The wind howled and Jongin asked, “Are you not cold?”

 

Soonyoung smiled shyly, timid. Her hands were on her back, probably linked together and being wrung. “I’m not,” she answered. The right corner of her lips was twitching before she continued, “The village can get colder than this. I can handle this much even when I’m naked.”

 

Jongin heard her gasp at her careless words and she stumbled through an apology. He waved her off and he smiled. She was red in the face now and it was not because of the nippy air. Blood rushed to her cheeks and the ends of her ears. The color flooded down to her neck and it disappeared under the top garment of her hanbok, beneath the fabrics crossed together.

 

The smile he had sent to Soonyoung’s way was welcomed wholeheartedly by the woman. She stepped closer and Jongin remained rooted on his spot, awaiting what she would do next. In a way, it was morbid—he felt like he was letting it happen. 

 

Like a nag, he felt the rosary around his neck and he instinctively reached towards it, running his index finger on the exposed wooden beads. Soonyoung caught the action and her eyes wandered from his face to where his fingers were dancing along the length of the accessory. Jongin took his hand away like he had been burnt.

 

“What’s that?” She asked. Soonyoung moved closer and the toes of their shoes were a foot away or less. The temperature dropped and so did Jongin’s stomach. Soonyoung stood on her tiptoes, and her eyes were trained on the wood resting against the tanned skin of Jongin’s neck. 

 

“A rosary,” he breathed out. Her proximity was making him uncomfortable but he could not move. He did not want to move. He felt like he should not. Soonyoung was a woman and he was a soldier. His thoughts were a jumbled mess. Her lips were thin and she was near enough that he could feel the phantoms of her breath all over his person.

 

Maybe it was his imagination.

 

Maybe it was guilt.

 

Maybe it was disgust at himself.

 

“You’re a Catholic?” She wondered. Soonyoung dropped on the balls of her feet and the accessory on her head bobbed. She was looking up at Jongin with a small smile. She looked hopeful. Jongin had done nothing to make her look at him this way. This was the first time they had spoken.

 

“Not really,” he replied curtly. He tried to reign the situation in. With sudden realization, he realized how precarious this was. He was not married and so was she. She was the village chief’s youngest daughter and he was a visiting soldier from the army up North.

 

She looked like she wanted him and Jongin—Jongin wanted something else, someone else.

 

“What do you mean by that, Senior Lieutenant Kim?” Her eyelashes were dark from where she was peeking underneath them. Jongin saw her hand twitch and her fingers creeped, crawling slowly over the pretty colors of the fabric, before it stopped on the edges of the ribbon tying her hanbok close. She took the end in between her thumb and forefinger. When he dropped his eyes, he could see her play with it—tracing and twirling the piece of cloth.

 

When his eyes snapped back, she was looking at him with flushed cheeks. She said, in an aborted gasp, “Why are you not a Catholic?”

 

“The war,” he said, half lying through his teeth. “The things I have done and the things I have seen and heard. There was no room for religion and God, afterwards.”

 

Soonyoung nodded and she took a small step forward. Jongin did not take a step back. He felt like this was what he was supposed to do, what was the right thing to do. His breath was steady but they were shallow, not reaching his lungs.

 

She hummed and she took her lower lips in between her teeth. Jongin, like a mad man, thought the flesh was too thin and was not pink enough. She took another step forward.

 

Distantly, he admired how bold she was. How careless. Soonyoung seemed like the type of woman who would take matters in her own hands. Jongin would giver her that and, if this was any other time, before everything that was— _that was_. He would have smiled at her and invited her for a walk, maybe they could get to know each other. Maybe he would undress her at the end of the night and they would part ways with a heated memory and the marks to show for it.

 

But.

 

There was a breath of air from her lips, a sigh, before she batted her lashes. She was truly beautiful. Her face was thin and lengthy but her cheekbones were high. Her forehead was full and her eyes wide. Her nose was narrow and sharp.

 

“Can I kiss you, Senior Lieutenant?” Soonyoung asked.

 

He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the way his body was freezing up. He exhaled a breath, even though it was futile. He was feeling nauseated like he had finished over ten cups of rice wine when, in reality, he had only drunk four, or five.

 

“Yes,” Jongin answered.

 

The word caught in his tongue, was barely out of his lips. He leaned down and he was careful when he pressed his mouth against hers. Jongin took a step forward and brought their bodies together for heat. His hands went to cup her face, holding it between his palms.

 

Soonyoung was pliant under him and he tilted the woman’s face when his tongue prodded for her lips to part. She was inexperienced but what she lacked, she made up for her vigor and enthusiasm. She opened her lips and Jongin stuck his tongue inside her mouth, and she pressed the both of them closer, as close as they could get with the thick folds of her hanbok between the two of them.

 

Her hands went up and Jongin felt Soonyoung take the rosary of her mother in between his hands. She was playing with the round beads. It was almost blasphemous. 

 

Jongin nibbled on her lower lip and his tongue swiped against hers. She moaned and he could feel her fingers tighten from where she was clutching the wooden necklace. He felt it being tugged higher and her small fists where resting below his nape. His mother’s rosary was wound around her hands.

 

One of Jongin’s hands moved from her face down to her neck. The littlest of touches and Soonyoung whined low. He trailed it lower, across the expanse of her narrow shoulders. Jongin kissed her harder and the breadth of her figure gave him an imaginary sense of familiarity. 

 

Their kiss was sin on top of another sin on top of another.

 

His hand found purchase on her hip and she broke the kiss first before she dived in again. This time, Jongin let Soonyoung take the lead. Her tongue was messy and their teeth almost clacked against each other. The tips of their noses bumped and she giggled into the kiss, sweet and curious.

 

Jongin moved his mouth, ate the sounds she was making. The pitch was wrong and so was the timbre and the melody.

 

His hands caressed her jaw and, with an electric jolt, he felt like being slapped hard or shot in the stomach—one bullet into his skin and warm blood trickling down, the metal passing through and falling to the ground on the other side—

 

The shape of her jawline was different. It was a straight line, with a delicate curve near the juncture of the ear. He was expecting something stronger. The face he was thinking of looked so soft except when it was not. Square jawline and round face. It should not be possible but it was, Jongin had seen him many times. Had wanted to see _him_ , a lot.

 

Jongin’s hand gripped her tighter and he pushed, careful to maintain as little force as possible so she would not trip or fall on her back . They were separated immediately.

 

One kiss, or two, and she looked completely wrecked. Her hair was still in place but her lips were wet and her cheeks were red. Her pupils were blown wide, as dark as the night of the new moon. Jongin did not feel anything except for the crippling cold.

 

“Senior Lieutenant?” She asked, worried and shy.

 

“I—” Jongin was rendered speechless and he curled his hands into tight fists. “I’m sorry, Soonyoung. I should not have done that.”

 

“I wanted it,” she replied. As if that was the issue.

 

“I know,” Jongin said.

 

_I did not_ remained quiet before the night air stole it with its breath and its whistle.

 

The red on Soonyoung’s cheeks flared and this time, it was for a different reason. Her bottom lip quivered and her hands shook as she fisted them on her hanbok. Jongin was tempted to tell her to stop—the clothes she was wearing were expensive. Soonyoung’s eyes were shining with emotion and he could clearly see the ups and downs of her chest, slow and deep.

 

Jongin thought she would slap him.

 

Soonyoung settled for saying: “I’m sorry.”

 

Jongin nodded, tired and spent, replying, “I’m the one who should be, Soonyoung.”

 

The woman shook her head and she asked, soft and hesitant. Even scared. Jongin felt bad, truly. The kiss was a mistake and this was what he had done just because he was a coward and a heretic. A blaspheme in the form of a boy, as his sisters would often say, years ago when everything was okay by some degree.

 

“Do you have a wife? Or a special person?” Soonyoung looked guilty. “Back home?” She was eyeing his ring finger. The emptiness of it was glaring and telling.

 

Jongin was tempted to laugh. At this point, he had no home. Home was where there was a military attachment and a temple filled with guns and ammunition. He lied, “Yes. Kind of.”

 

Soonyoung lick her lips and she gripped the skirt of her hanbok closer. “I’m sorry. To her.” With a soft sigh, she added, “You must have loved her a whole lot—for you to stop.”

 

He nodded, but inside, he disagreed.

 

Jongin must have loved “her” less because he kissed Soonyoung in the first place. He was not brave enough and he was too scared, too averse to himself that it was difficult to reconcile the turmoils of his mind with the beats of his heart. The rosary rested on his neck and the imaginary pins of his uniform poked his skin, leaving stinging prickles and goosebumps.

 

There was a scoff threatening to break through the remorse that Jongin was feeling. If only she knew.

 

If only she knew there was no girl.

 

If only she knew there was—one. A special person. Maybe. But they were not a woman.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The dissonance was startling.

 

On a bad day, it made Jongin want to curl into himself and rip every inch of his skin. Rip his mother’s rosary and crush every bead in between his palms. He felt like he was doing the right thing, felt like he was doing the only right thing in the world. It was one less sin on his bad record. 

 

On a good day, he would look at Kyungsoo and he would think it was not that bad. What he was feeling was not bad at all. He was just here, longing for another person the same way a man would long for a woman. There was no difference; it was a whole feeling that was real. On these days, it was the only real thing he could hold on to.

 

Except, he did not. Hold on to it, that is.

 

Jongin held on to something different. It was silly, every time he would think about it. Here he was—a soldier, a thief, a murderer—and the only thing tethering Kim Jongin to the person of the past, the boy who he was before the war and the blood and the ruin, was the things his mother had preached with her rattling voice. It took her much effort from all the coughing she was doing, but she was stern and resolute when she would open the worn out book at night.

 

Sometimes, Jongin wondered if his mother had known what she was talking about or if she had just been quoting the same polemics she had heard while growing up in her large home before it was taken away from her. Perhaps it was the only thing that was anchoring his mother to her own past, much like how he was now.

 

He sighed and the exhale of his breath was interrupted by Sehun. The younger man had been doing that a lot, these days. Jongin had noticed how he was always within talking distance. He felt like he was being watched, closely monitored by his own second-in-command.

 

“You seem to be in deep thought,” Sehun commented idly.

 

The man sat down next to Jongin under the shade of the tree. Across from them, some of their soldiers were working with the villagers. There was an easy camaraderie that was apparent with the way they were exchanging barbs with each other. 

 

His eyes roamed and, in the sea of green and blue, he found Kyungsoo. The man was knee-deep in the paddy and, from this distance, Jongin could make out the slight mud marring Kyungsoo’s cheekbone. It was a small blemish that was stark against the fairness of his skin. The sun was bright and it made the older man brighter.

 

Jongin’s heart was full but his stomach was empty. His skin crawled as well as his spine. It was slow, the tendrils were snaking centimeter by centimeter. He resisted shivering with a will born out of years fighting for his life. The feeling was close to that, ironically enough.

 

The pause had extended for too long and Jongin’s eyes were still on Kyungsoo. He said to Sehun, lips moving carefully around the words, insincere, “I am. In deep thought.”

 

And he was. Even if the thoughts were something Sehun would not be privy to. Maybe in another time. Maybe never. He trusted Sehun to keep watch over his back and he, at gunpoint, could say without hesitation that he trusted the other man with his life. It was what had made them a team, an army. 

 

But not this. Never this.

 

He could feel Sehun’s stare boring on the side of his face. Their breathing was out of sync before the weight of the younger male’s eyes left his profile. Jongin snuck a glance and he saw Sehun overlooking the rice fields too. Everyone who were not taking five were happily working. One of his soldiers hit a villager with a ball of mud to the sound of loud laughter.

 

Jongin smiled and it felt genuine, at least.

 

“Are you thinking about the war?” Sehun whispered.

 

“Are you?” Jongin threw back.

 

The man shrugged, lifting one shoulder slightly. It brushed against Jongin’s and he was tempted to pull away. Physical contact sounded to be the most displeasing thing right now.

 

“How can I not be?” Sehun said. “In a month or less, everything would be a shit show. We could die.”

 

Jongin nodded grimly and he noted the slight waver in Sehun’s voice. Wars tended to do that to a person. Sehun might have seen his fair share but if what he had considered turned out to be right, then it would be a cluster fuck.

 

Jongin would deny this until he took his dying breath but when he turned his head to the side, contemplative, his eyes did not leave Kyungsoo’s, he felt a soft tug on a small part of himself. There was something there—a whisper like the gentlest among the blows of summer breeze—the stirrings of concern and doubts boiling over into the beginnings of conundrums.

 

“Sehun,” said Jongin. His voice was quiet and was audible only to the two of them. From meters away, Kyungsoo had been attacked by Jongdae’s hands, dirty with the mud he had scooped. Kyungsoo’s laughter sounded far and tiny but it was enough. Jongin heard it loud and clear that it resonated within every crevice, every wound and scar.

 

“Yeah?” Sehun replied before he heaved a weary sigh.

 

“Do you agree with this war?”

 

He heard Sehun suck in a deep breath, sharp and ringing with clarity. With a quiver on his words, he replied, “Why are you even asking that? Is the answer not obvious?”

 

“It’s not,” Jongin said and then, elaborated, “Obvious. I mean. So… do you or do you not agree with this war?”

 

“I—” Sehun paused. Jongin knew the man was considering his words carefully. They were both soldiers and Jongin was still the younger’s commanding officer, no matter how casual they could seem. “I think,” he gave another deep sigh like answering the question was such a chore. Jongin agreed with Sehun’s sentiments. “I don’t think there are wars that can be considered agreeable.”

 

Jongin tipped an imaginary glass of alcohol at that. “Yeah,” he said. “I used to think there are, you know? Wars that I can justify. Now—” 

 

Jongin did not look far to spot Kyungsoo again. He was playing around with Jongdae—the two of them were clinging to each other like a pair of limpets. Their smiles were big and Jongin’s eyes were glued on the Kyungsoo and Kyungsoo only. The world faded in front of his eyes in an instant.

 

His chest tightened and his hollow bones flared up with the sudden rush of emotion. Jongin blinked andrecognized it as jealousy, finally. Instead of feeling lightness at the revelation and his own honesty, he felt even heavier like there were iron shackles around his wrists and a ball-and-chain around each of his ankles.

 

“Now?” Sehun prompted, bringing him back to the present.

 

“Now I know that there are things that I want to protect but it does not mean going to war for it,” said Jongin. “Not because they’re not worth it but because I would rather have an illusion of peace than risk it all together. Wars are not confined within the front lines and the trenches.”

 

“An unjust peace rather than a just war,” Sehun hummed. He added, “You’d be that selfish?”

 

“And then some,” Jongin answered with an uncharacteristic display of honesty.

 

He thought Sehun had startled at that but Kyungsoo had just fallen down on the dirt with a bright laugh, lips in a heart and eyes in twin moons. Jongin’s heart ached and he wondered how it would feel like—to be the person that would bring about the sheer joy on Kyungsoo’s face, to share that joy with the older man. He did not turn towards Sehun to check the younger man’s expression.

 

“Is it this country?” Sehun asked after a weighted pause. He sounded unsure and hesitant to know the answer.

 

Jongin gave to him the lie that would make the both of them sleep at night. 

 

“Yes, it is,” he said as he watched Kyungsoo slip on the mud with a resounding giggle before he pulled Jongdae down with him.

 

Jongin was so jealous. He was so, so jealous. But he could not bring within himself to admit anything more than that. It felt raw, to be this honest.

 

Sehun made a thoughtful noise and he said, without any preamble or context, “You and Do Kyungsoo…”

 

The trail of his words caused Jongin to become overtly alert. Apropos of nothing, and suddenly Kyungsoo’s name. Denial was warm on his tongue and loose on his lips.

 

“You have not been going out together, anymore?” Sehun remarked. 

 

Jongin chanced a short peek at the younger man and found him to be looking at the same direction as he was. He answered, with no inflection or anything, “I never noticed.”

 

Sehun scoffed, and Jongin froze at the sound. His second-in-command rallied on with a sharp edge on his tone. “Bullshit, Jongin. You and I both knew you have been getting close with Do Kyungsoo before this—separation. Whatever.”

 

“Whatever,” he repeated dryly, tried to sound like he was the most unimpressed. He gave himself a medal for his effort.

 

Sehun turned his eyes to him and this time, their gazes met, direct and head-on. Nuclear. The younger man had a twist on his lips and his features were screaming at him with something Jongin could not make out.

 

The younger male leaned in and he whispered, “Be careful, Jongin. We’re in the middle of war.”

 

When Sehun placed distance between the two of them, Jongin was tempted to ask what the war had to do with anything. But his eyes were suddenly drawn to Do Kyungsoo once more and, he knew. He knew that answer to the question he did not ask.

 

Jongin’s priorities shifted in time with the thunderous heartbeats inside his chest.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jongin had made an attempt, truly, to avoid bumping elbows with Kyungsoo. He had not changed his routines but the meals they had spent together continued to be filled with the uncomfortably stifling silence. Every time they were in the same room, the air was thick with tension, crackling beneath the surface.

 

Somehow, it was worse than the first few days of their meeting.

 

There, the hostility was open, sharp words were thrown at each other until it had ended up with the two of them trading blows. This—Jongin had no idea what to make of. Kyungsoo would spend seconds, sometimes spanning an entire minute, staring at him. It was unnerving, being under the older man’s observation.

 

Jongin felt small, sometimes. Because Kyungsoo had no idea, had zero clue why he was acting like a complete bitch. He would fall asleep and Kyungsoo would be facing him, lying on his deaf ear, and Jongin would be on his back, wishing he could turn and face Kyungsoo. The thought would often be tanked; his breathing would turn erratic just by thinking about seeing the other man’s sleeping face.

 

He had peeked, once. In the middle of the night, he had woken up after another nightmare. It had not been as bad as the one from _that night_ but it was a fucking bad memory, still. His eyes had subconsciously sought Kyungsoo and afterwards, Jongin had known what they meant, when they said one person could tether another to a moment, to a reality.

 

Kyungsoo was that, for him.

 

And more, perhaps, if he let himself think too much about it. He did not—but on some days, when the sun was beating down on his back and his insides where warm with the familiar comfort of summer and the wind would ruffle his hair, Jongin would let himself hope, just for a millisecond.

 

Kyungsoo was putting on his work clothes inside the bedroom and Jongin had been ready for almost ten minutes now, waiting in the living area, sprawled all over the wooden floor. The two of them still went to the fields together, sometimes, in what Jongin had secretly suspected as masochism on his part.

 

When the door slid open, the sound was deafening amidst the unbearable silence of the room. There was nothing but their paired breathing and even that was not in time with each other. Jongin would inhale and Kyungsoo would exhale. Every breath or so, one of them would take a longer time.

 

“Can we go now?” Jongin asked, standing up.

 

Kyungsoo sighed, weary, and retorted, “I’m fully dressed, am I not?”

 

The silence was punctuated, heavy with unease. The both of them were walking on eggshells around each other and neither of them cared about the bleeding on their bottom feet. Jongin would not budge and so would Kyungsoo.

 

A little hysterical, it registered to Jongin that whatever this was between Kyungsoo and him, it was a battle of attrition.

 

He had no idea who was winning or losing or if it even mattered at this point. Maybe they were both on the winning side, no war was ever genuinely victorious, anyways. Kyungsoo and he would be no different.

 

Kyungsoo went to the small kitchen and Jongin followed. The older man huffed a breath when he handed Jongin a box carefully wrapped in a scrap of cheap terry cloth. The edges of it were fraying.

 

“Your lunch,” Kyungsoo said, stating the obvious. He walked past Jongin and his right shoulder brushed the side of Jongin’s arm. 

 

The contact sent his knees trembling, minute and almost unnoticeable except for the way Jongin clutched his lunch box tight. He tried to dig the pads of his fingers into the metal as he kept his vision straight and his breathing in control. 

 

One single touch, one single contact, and he would have gone to rack and ruin without a warning.

 

Kyungsoo walked to the front door without care as if it was Jongin who had only felt the electricity between the two of them. It was too much, sometimes, to be so close to a person you could not touch. Jongin was intimate with the longing that came with it. And even more so, the feeling of aversion mingling with weight of guilt on his chest and stomach.

 

It was heavy. Overwhelming. It was too much to bear.

 

When he was near enough, standing behind Kyungsoo, Jongin noticed the hairs on the man’s nape to be standing up. The tips of his ears were pink. Jongin blinked his eyes, fast and in a succession of four, and wondered if he was seeing things.

 

When his eyesight settled and cleared once more, there were still goosebumps on Kyungsoo’s exposed skin. Jongin followed the length of the older male’s right arm and his stomach bloomed with the feeling of something he was to scared to name when he noticed Kyungsoo’s knuckles were white from how hard he was clenching his own fists together.

 

“Let’s go,” he said. Kyungsoo did not answer but Jongin could see the line of his shoulders became tense and he could hear the way the shorter man was breathing—deep as if trying to feign his calm composure even if he was being ripped apart from the inside out.

 

Jongin knew, of course, because that was how he was feeling too.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He supposed it was bad luck.

 

Jongin’s life had been a series of bad decisions turning into the worst possible scenarios. Today was no different. 

 

One of the villagers had offered to pay him a good sum of money to harvest the potatoes from her large plantation. Jongin had agreed under the begging of the old woman and she had promised to pack rice cakes for him and _the Kyungsoo boy living at the saddest part of the village_. Her words, not his.

 

What greeted him when he arrived was this: a stone faced Jongdae standing in his work clothes, hand wrapped around a small digging shovel and the other was gripping the handle of the tin pail. It was swinging from how hard he was holding it.

 

“Good morning,” Jongin greeted, practically sneering towards Jongin’s direction. The sun had barely come up and there were streaks of light slowly erupting behind the light violet of the sky. The air was slightly damp and the early morning this far off in the countryside and almost near the seas gave off a certain chill that, if Jongin tried hard enough, he could pretend he was tasting salt on the tip of his tongue and on the chapped skin of his lips.

 

The village was a little bit like Wonsan that way. When he closed his eyes, the temperature would graze his skin and he could hear the waves crashing the shore of the high walls that prevented the tide from climbing up and spilling over the seaside villages. Jongin used to play around on the cemented roads near the ocean—it was the best of everything, a town near the beach. There were sands in between his toes and underneath his nails as he went around picking shells and making necklaces out of them.

 

It was a good part of his childhood and he could not help but feel certain degree of attachment to the village who had brought it back to him, who had introduced it to him once more. The air might have smelt wrong, and the scenery might have not been a carbon copy, and the Korean peninsula might have been ready to collapse any moment, but here, at dawn, Jongin could forget everything.

 

The mountains around the village gave a pretense of false protection. Jongin felt untouchable here.

 

Jongdae gave him a curt nod, replied, “Morning, Senior Lieutenant.”

 

The way the rank rolled off of the shorter male’s mouth took him out of his imaginary home, instantly pulling him towards the reality of digging up potatoes from underneath the ground while soil stained the knees of his trousers until he was dirty, from beneath his nail beds up to his forearm and to the tanned skin of his face and neck.

 

Jongdae sounded razor-sharp and sardonic. His eyes were narrowed into slits and his mouth curled at the corners. Instead of the usual brightness and the joking of youth that was characteristic of him, the male had looked a lot like Jongin—a soldier at his wits’ end.

 

He was instantly wary, not the way that he usually was around Jongdae. Before today, the man had been another face fading into the background of the idyllic village. Imaginary person in the imaginary community of imaginary peace. It was weird—suddenly being hyper aware of the other man. Jongin knew nothing about him except his close relationship with Kyungsoo.

 

The thought of the other man’s name had him freezing up before he walked past Jongdae. Jongin had never claimed to face his battles head on. In the front lines maybe, but that was that and this was this and Jongdae could turn him into ashes with the force of his glare and he would not care.

 

The man’s footsteps were steady against the slightly damp soil. The ground was wet with the precipitation of the morning dew. From a near distance, there was the loud ringing of a rooster’s call. Once, twice, thrice, and then dragging on the last one until it turned into another lost vibrations in the air. The sound bounced, echoing shortly. He grabbed his own pail in shovel from the storage shack before he made his way towards the expansive plain.

 

Jongin pounded on the small of his back with a closed hand as he crouched down and started digging. The small shovel hit the ground and he pushed the tool to bury it and scoop the soil. With his other hand, he pulled the rest of the potato out. The dirt showered downwards when he raised and tossed the root plant into the bucket beside him.

 

The sky changed its color with the sounds of Jongin’s breathing and the pings of potatoes against the metal bucket. From where his back had been turned he could hear Jongdae throwing his own harvest to his pail. Jongin was lulled by the other male’s consistent humming—folk tunes that did not match in pattern or melody slipping between his lips and carrying over to where Jongin had been slaving away.

 

Mid-morning, the owner came out and called, “Jongdae! Senior Lieutenant! Come and have some snacks first!”

 

Jongin breathed a sigh of relief as he stood up. The bones on his back cracked and his thighs burnt in complaint over the hard work. He was dirty all over, from his hands to his clothes, and there was the thick stench of dried sweat clinging to him.

 

Jongdae replied with an enthusiastic, “Of course, Auntie! Thanks!”

 

Jongin settled for a polite, “Thank you,” and a small bow of his head.

 

He let Jongdae wash his hands first. There was a shallow basin near the bench where their snacks were. Jongdae took a cupful of the tap water and slowly poured it over his hands, cleaning it with soap. He watched as the water flowed from the skin to the ground with the color of fresh mud. The other male took two more cupfuls before he stood up and sat on the bench. The plate of food was on his right.

 

Jongin did the same but he used three cups instead of two. When he sat down, the wood was slightly warm though it was nothing uncomfortable. Their silence, however, was fraught with tension—the distance between the two of them was taut, held together by a thin thread that either of them could snap without much thought.

 

If Kyungsoo and he were an impending earthquake, then what was lying between him and Jongdae was the fragility of a hanging bridge, the ropes holding it together were wearing thin, threatening to unravel and plunge everyone to the awaiting ravine below.

 

“Kim Jongin!” Jongdae barked and Jongin guessed it was he who had to fall down as the other man pulled the ropes loose from the makeshift bridge.

 

“Yes, Sir?” Out of instinct, Jongin straightened his back, a perfect pin rod, and he brought his thighs together from where he had let it sprawl gracelessly. Jongdae sounded like he could command an army with the sharp call of his voice, carrying out the empty silence and echoing inside Jongin’s chest cavity. He sounded like he could start wars—or end them—with a single command.

 

“No need to call me ‘sir’, Senior Lieutenant.” Jongdae teased. His pitch had gone a notch higher and Jongin turned around when he felt an elbow on the side of his arm. The other man had a large grin on his face, the ends of it were curled in a cattish manner and it made the joke easier on his face. Jongdae looked like he suited the casual camaraderie of soldiers in the barracks—all sexual innuendos and physical contact.

 

Jongin had no answer to that and he was never in a talking relationship with the man. Jongdae came in bouts of _Kyungsoo—_ the other man was a conjecture of Do Kyungsoo in the catalog of Jongin’s mind. Kyungsoo’s pseudo-brother. Kyungsoo’s closest person. Kyungsoo’s _someone_. 

 

Jongin moved his head to the side and his eyes stole a glance Jongdae’s seated figure. The other was a picture of utmost indifference. He looked so calm and unbothered. One hand resting flat on the wooden bench and one leg crossed on top of another, Jongdae’s head was bobbing in tune with a music that Jongin could not hear.

 

Jealousy spiked quick and it wrapped Jongin’s chest with bitterness, rising to tinge his sight and to blur its edges. The blue of the late morning turned green as the light refracted through the floating dust, creating tiny specters out of thin air.

 

“Kim,” Jongdae said. It was low, almost inaudible if not for the fact that Jongin had been waiting for the man’s next words.

 

“Yeah?” Jongin feigned nonchalance but in truth, his heart was already starting to sprint. He could hear his pulse, the steady _thump, thump, thump_ was loud in the stillness of the countryside village.

 

“How do you feel about our Kyungsoo?”

 

The candidness of the man’s straightforward question was not what Jongin expected. Somehow, it did not surprise him as much as he thought it would. 

 

That did not stop him from taking a sharp breath, a dagger slicing his wind pipe, as his shoulders slumped lower. He turned his eyes up, looking at the clouds overhead. There was one shaped like a heart beside another that looked like a bullet. It was ironic—maybe poetic. Perhaps Jongin was going insane, had already gone insane.

 

“I don’t know what you mean,” he answered. It was a half-truth—Jongin knew what Jongdae had meant. He was just not sure if he could give the right answer—if there was even one.

 

“You knew exactly what I meant, Senior Lieutenant,” Jongdae scoffed. The honorific slid out of the other man’s lips with casual insolence. He repeated, “How do you feel about our Kyungsoo?”

 

Jongin took a deep breath but it did not reach his lungs. The sun was a gentle warmth on his skin and he closed his eyes, tipping his head farther back. The light beat down on his skin and the column of his exposed neck. Jongin released a tired sigh and he admitted, “I don’t… With Kyungsoo… I don’t know.”

 

Jongdae chuckled shortly. It sounded fond and amused. Jongin had yet to open his eyes so he could not look at the other man’s expression. He was expecting a punch, maybe. Jongin was so careless but the weight of everything was crushing him down with it. If Jongdae wanted to go ahead and scream at the top of his lungs the a list of Jongin’s sins from a sentence of his answer, then he could do as he pleased. Jongin had a loaded Nagant kept safe and locked.

 

“Do you not really,” said Jongdae. 

 

It was not a question. Even if it was, Jongin had no answer.

 

Jongdae seemed to have no regard for Jongin’s lack of response. Instead, the man continued on, uncaring that Jongin was neither answering nor looking at him. “I’m not blind, Kim. And Kyungsoo may be deaf on one ear but that does not make him any less as smart as you.” The words rushed to him like transferred adrenaline, merciless with the high it gave. Jongin closed his eyes tighter.

 

“It wasn’t about that,” he defended. Soft as a freshly blossomed flower, petals barely opened.

 

“Of course it was not,” Jongdae’s was the sharp scent of an adult plant, menthol leaves and hard bark. Strong and untouchable. “It was about Kyungsoo being a man—as you are.”

 

“Jongdae,” Jongin started. The words were stuck on his throat, choking him with a vice grip. His heart had probably stopped beating, overworked with how fast it had been moving since the conversation had started. There was numbness on the his skin, crawling deep and filling the hollow of his bones with ice.

 

This cold, it burnt.

 

“Kyungsoo tells me things, you know?” The man added in place of an explanation.He sounded exasperated.

 

Jongin opened his eyes and he let the brightness of the sun assault his vision for a second or two before he turned away. Facing Jongdae, he found the other male looking at him, stare dead on his person. There were dark spots marring the blur of the man and Jongin blinked a couple of times so his sight would focus.

 

“Did Kyungsoo tell you—”

 

Jongdae held his palm up. “Kyungsoo told me how much of a fucking pansy you are being.”

 

“I wasn’t,” he reasoned out. “I was trying to protect the both of us.”

 

Jongdae shook his head, “You’re only trying to protect yourself.” The man reached his arms up and Jongin was frozen on the spot when Jongdae’s fingers brushed his nape. Instincts almost kicked in and he was about to throw the man a punch for the intrusive action when he felt him tug something underne—

 

His mother’s rosary.

 

The wood caressed the skin of his chest like a leather whip. The drag of the cross was a penitence in itself. Jongin held his breath until Jongdae let go of the accessory, letting it fall back on its place beneath Jongin’s cotton shirt.

 

“I knew you were a religious man, Senior Lieutenant,” Jongdae began. His words were akin to deep flogging on an already cut up back. “I just never expected you to be this much.”

 

Jongin was at lost for words, once again. The male beside him turned his head to the expanse of the fields in front of them. With a sigh, Jongdae said, “It was human emotion. Perhaps the most complicated but. It was an emotion, right? You’re still human.”

 

He sucked in an inhale and air tasted like the smoke of the front lines, thick and pungent. Jongin’s fingers trembled. Jongdae had a point, a small part of his brain was thinking. Jongdae knew nothing, was what another part thought.

 

It was a battle inside himself. It was ridiculous.

 

“Homosexuality is a sin,” said Jongin, helpless and without the even footing.

 

“And so is murder,” replied Jongdae. He shrugged his shoulders like it was that simple. “You’ve done a lot of things, Kim. I’m sure falling in love with another male was the least immoral out of that long list.”

 

Jongin was a sinner, a murderer, a thief, a soldier.

 

But Jongin was also a lover, longing to become the beloved. To be held at night and to be bathed in warmth. To be smiled at. His heart came alive under the admission.

 

“Your silence leaves a lot to the imagination, Senior Lieutenant,” Jongdae laughed. And then, turning serious, he said, “Tomorrow, Kyungsoo would not be himself. I—I used to go with him, sometimes, when he allowed. You could try asking him. See where it would lead the two of you.”

 

There was a pause eating away the moment. Jongin thought: _There were no happy middles for soldiers like me_. His heart was in his throat. He felt nauseous. The ground underneath his feet felt like it was opening up, ready to swallow him whole.

 

Jongdae turned to him with an expression that Jongin could not name. His eyes were bright and the stark cut of his jawline casted deep shadows from where the sun had hit it with its light. There was a soft smile beginning to form on Jongdae’s lips.

 

It felt heavy—everything that had happened in the past few minutes. It felt like an eternity when, in reality, it had not been for half an hour. Jongdae’s lips were moving but he was slow in registering the meaning of the man’s words. Jongin feel every nerve endings on his body, working and flaring up with shocks of electricity.

 

“I think you have made a decision, Kim Jongin.”

 

Jongin had.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**_June 10, 1950_ **

 

 

Jongin watched Kyungsoo’s every move, loitering around the man’s space without being invasive. The older male had shot him a look every time he breathed the same air, close enough to touch if either of them was brave enough.

 

His skin remained devoid of any tingles; Jongin’s feet were firm, solid, on the soil and the wooden floorboards of Kyungsoo’s home. Neither of them reached out, clinging to the shells of their watered down armor. The walls Jongin had built were nonexistent over Kyungsoo and yet there was still apprehension marring his every action.

 

Jongdae’s words from yesterday rang clear, the bluest of blue, an undisturbed inlet in the middle of stormy waters. Jongin had no idea what to make of the other male’s advice—if it was even one. Jongdae knew Jongin’s secret, the one he had been trying to curb with every repressed touch and curt nod. 

 

He had expected half of his platoon to barge inside Kyungsoo’s house and take both of his hands, tie him up and parade their commanding officer like a gutted pig. Jongin had expected a bullet by now, from his temple to the other—or maybe they would prolong it. He was a shameful stain among their company, Senior Lieutenant with _untoward_ feelings towards another male.

 

Jongin ought to be crucified but—

 

But when Kyungsoo’s lips pulled like that, small and barely a centimeter, he felt like the only sin he had been committing was not making the older man smile like that more often. His heart would skip a beat and Jongin would feel alive outside of the front lines—where he only felt alive because he was trying not to die.

 

He allowed the day to pass like that. The silence between the two of them had long gone from fraught to weighty. Jongin had tried to get used to the sound of static and the constant white noise. The clock ticked alongside Kyungsoo’s dying radio—folk songs sung in vibrato and national news spoken in a detached monotone.

 

Twilight swallowed the lost hours with the shadows of the slowly darkening sky. The oranges had long faded into violet, the blood red of the sky near the horizon had disappeared. The air was tinged with smoke from where Kyungsoo had burnt leaves and twigs after cleaning the courtyard.

 

At half past five, 18:00 in Jongin’s mind and empty wrist, Kyungsoo was puttering around the house, pulling out a basket from the storage room. Jongin had not seen what Kyungsoo had placed inside but he saw the man come out of their shared bedroom carrying a folded piece of cloth and what looked to be a small blanket, quilted and old. 

 

The gas lamp was loose on his hold when he was putting his shoes on. Jongin watched when Kyungsoo smoothed the socks covering his feet before he carefully inserted his toes inside the right shoe.

 

“Where are you going, Kyungsoo?” he asked. He drummed his finger on top of his thigh. Jongin had the lamp off even when there was barely any light escaping into the tiny living room. The lamp Kyungsoo was holding was turned on and the glow of it made the older man brighter, more alive. Vibrant.

 

“Somewhere,” was Kyungsoo’s disinterested reply.

 

“It’s dark,” Jongin remarked. He watched as Kyungsoo froze for a short moment before the man slipped his other foot inside the shoe. Kyungsoo tapped the tips of his shoes against the ground, making it sit properly, right one first before the left. Jongin added, “Can I come with you?”

 

Kyungsoo turned to him with wide eyes and the light from the lamp lightened the color of his irises. His pupils were blown shut, dilating, and Jongin could clearly see, from meters away, the inky prints of Kyungsoo’s lashes from where their shadows had painted a masterpiece underneath the older man’s eyes, over the slight purple bruising from the lack of sleep.

 

The male’s lips were parted slightly and Jongin wanted to trace them with his index finger—see if it was as soft as it looked and feel the man’s warm breathing on the pads of his fingers. Hesitation colored the man’s features like an unwelcome artist and the man’s eyes narrowed just as his mouth formed a gentle grimace. His hand had gone tight around the handles of the lamp and Kyungsoo had yet to pick up the basket from the ground, when he had put it down before to wear his shoes.

 

“Can I, Kyungsoo?” Jongin asked again, borderline begging. The softness of his voice and the whine underneath were whattsunamis were made of, flinging towards entire villages and destroying households. 

 

The older man’s tongue poked the inside of his cheek and he looked to be in deep thought. The furrow of his eyebrows, Jongin guessed, was from the slight annoyance the other man was feeling. Jongin knew he was topsy-turvy, an entire confusing bitch masquerading as a soldier. Even he himself had no idea what in the ever loving fuck was he doing except that Jongdae said yesterday Kyungsoo would not be himself and Jongin just wanted to make sure Kyungsoo was okay.

 

“Today was,” Kyungsoo began then stopped. The uncertainty was apparent from his entire stance—shoulders hunched in towards himself, eyes flitting everywhere but Jongin’s direction, the downturn of his mouth. And then, a sigh, defeated. Kyungsoo closed his eyes for a second before he opened them again. This time, he was looking straight at Jongin. “You can come with me. I’m going to the stream. The one where we—”

 

Kyungsoo let his word hang and drag, allowing the air to take the burden of continuing from him. Jongin was thankful that the older man did not elaborate. There were many things unspoken between the two of them and this one, he would gladly accept to remain as such. 

 

At least, for now.

 

Jongin stood up quietly and Kyungsoo waited for him at the entryway patiently. The lamp he was holding was swinging idly. When Jongin stepped near the older man, it was like seeing him again for the first time. This time, the truth. Without any hostility, Kyungsoo looked beautiful in the dark when the only light was the small gas lantern in his hold. It was a spectacle to behold, to be so near Kyungsoo like this when Jongin had been wanting and craving.

 

“Jongin,” Kyungsoo whispered. Jongin was looking down at him and Kyungsoo was looking up at him with a guarded expression. His lips were twisted again and Jongin was sure it was not a trick of light when the blood pooled high on the man’s round cheeks and it went down on his chest. There was a dusting of pink, too, on the tips of the older man’s ears.

 

He turned away and Jongin breathed a sigh. Kyungsoo said, “Put your shoes on.”

 

Jongin kneeled and did what the older man had ordered him to do. The air was once again heavy and Jongin was reminded of that tiny fissure on the earth, the one that was threatening to quiver before violently being upheaved. The crack seemed to grow when he stood up again and Kyungsoo’s head was tilted to the closed door as if he was expecting.

 

Jongin took the basket on the floor and he slid the door open. He let Kyungsoo out first before locking behind. It was barely night but he was sure that by the time they had reached the dried up stream a little hike away, the moon would have risen for her slumber, cut in half.

 

“Come on,” Kyungsoo said. Jongin fell into step on the man’s right, like how he had always done after Kyungsoo had confessed to him his disability. “We need to get there before it’s too dark. The rocks will be too slippery and I don’t want any accidents.”

 

“I can handle myself,” Jongin answered. He pushed his hands inside his pockets and he held the basket on his right hand, swinging with his every step. The blanket was covering whatever it was that Kyungsoo had packed inside.

 

The roads were quiet, dead quiet, in this area of the village. The only noise were the cicadas singing their usual song and the occasional rustling of small animals. What started as uncomfortable silence slowly morphed into the gentle embrace of familiarity born out of routine Jongin felt like he had been doing this all his life, longer than killing people and being a soldier. He felt like he had been walking alongside Kyungsoo since the beginning—the man’s steady breathing was an easy repose and the crunches of his footfalls against the pebbles and the dried leaves were forgotten lullabies from Jongin’s childhood dreams.

 

The trek was slow and Kyungsoo was right—the rocks were too slippery and the darkness had made it harder to walk through the beaten path. Jongin had to steady himself many times that he had stopped counting. He was walking behind Kyungsoo now, just in case he had to catch the older man if he slipped. The gas lamp was flickering every second and the embers of the fire licking the glass cover were eerie to the point of almost mystical.

 

When they reached the same place, the large tree near the inverted valley created by the waterless channel, Jongin sighed in relief. There were no words exchanged between the two of them and he allowed Kyungsoo to take the basket from his right hand.

 

The older man set the gas lamp beside the tree trunk and Jongin watched as Kyungsoo pulled one of the folded fabrics, shaking it loose and undone. He waved it in the air a few times with the small jerks of his wrists and Jongin watched as Kyungsoo laid it down over the dry ground.

 

Jongin awaited the apocalypse and it came slow, at first—Kyungsoo sat down on one end, getting settled and patting the lumps underneath—before it poured down in one go to the beat of Kyungsoo’s mouth sounding out his words.

 

“Lie down beside me, Jongin?”

 

Kyungsoo did not disappoint.

 

Jongin’s hands turned clammy and sweat bead on the inner corners of his eyebrows, pooling together before trickling down to the sides of his nose bridge. His feet were immobile and Jongin cursed, trying to tell his body to respond.

 

Kyungsoo had this quality that, sometimes, a single breath and he could make Jongin lose himself, and find himself again. He said, “Okay,” before he slowly step forward. Kyungsoo was removing his shoes and was arranging them neatly to the side of the blanket. Jongin did the same and this time, he sat down on Kyungsoo’s left, the same way their mattresses were arranged on the floors of Kyungsoo’s room.

 

But that was inside a house and this was. This was in front of Kyungsoo’s childhood, the stream from his memories where he had gone to play, where he had continuously gone when no one had even bothered.

 

He felt Kyungsoo move and Jongin did not turn around. His eyes were trained on Kyungsoo’s foot as the other man wriggled, finding a better position on his back. Jongin was still sitting down and he took his time to unlace his boots. 

 

He found an excuse with the meticulous way he was pulling the lace from one eyelet to another. Jongin undid the it almost completely, letting two criss-crosses remain. The other shoe took just as much time, or maybe even longer. Jongin’s fingers were shaking and he wondered if Kyungsoo could see from that angle before he felt silly. His entire back was covering the tremors wracking his hands—wrists to the tips of his long fingers.

 

“You’re taking a long time,” Kyungsoo observed. It was said quietly with no inflection of accusation or suspicion. It might as well have been Jongin’s death sentence.

 

“It’s hard to remove boots,” he answered. His voice did not shake but his throat was closed up. The pitch of it was all kinds of fucking weird.

 

Kyungsoo did not say anything but Jongin heard a hum from behind him, the soft stirrings of a song he did not know the title of. With a belated recognition, he said, “You’re always humming that. Whose song is it?”

 

There was silence. 

 

A stray animal stepped on dried leaves and Jongin tensed up. The sound was not dissimilar to the loud falls of feet against the forest grounds when he was in China, deployed for a short moment in the middle of a messy guerrilla warfare. 

 

“My mother’s,” Kyungsoo answered after a moment.

 

His voice took away the tension on the breadth of Jongin’s torso and the taut contractions of his abdomen, barely breathing—a result of a bad lesson from a mistake five or four years ago when he exhaled too loud and got shot, almost dying. One of his scars gave twinge and he resisted the urge to press his palms from where it was, knowing that that period was over and there was no blood gushing from an old wound.

 

He exhaled and he pulled his foot free from the confines of his boots, arranging it neatly the way Kyungsoo had done just minutes before. The sky had turned completely dark and the light of the moon barely passed through the thick clusters of leaves. Their own light from the lantern they had brought was turned low.

 

Jongin lied down.

 

The blanket was small. 

 

He could feel Kyungsoo’s heat on the side of his body and Jongin gulped from how close they were without touching. He pressed his thighs closed, trying to avoid contact with the other man over their clothes. Jongin was not sure what he would do so he hugged himself together, arms folded on top of his stomach.

 

He felt like the dead—this small space beside Kyungsoo was his own personal coffin. The blanket was not long enough and Jongin’s ankles were pushed and hanging to the uncovered ground. It did not matter. He was used to sleeping on the dirt, bloodied and half-dead.

 

This was a luxury.

 

Kyungsoo’s company was a luxury.

 

Jongin took a breath and he was so close to Kyungsoo. Kyungsoo was lying right there that when he let his arms loose around him, he would be able to touch the other man. If he scooted closer, an inch or so, his shoulder would brush Kyungsoo’s. 

 

“Are you uncomfortable?” Kyungsoo broke the silence.

 

“No,” Jongin replied quickly. There was a piece of stone digging on his back, probably too jagged that even the thickness of the blanket was not masking its edges. “I’ve lied on worse.”

 

Kyungsoo huffed a laugh; Jongin had no idea what was funny. The older man clarified, “I meant with me. Are you uncomfortable with me, Jongin?”

 

Jongin stilled and he limit his breathing to soft inhales and exhales as he let Kyungsoo’s question wash over him. He was uncomfortable but not towards the older man. Never towards Kyungsoo, who had known nothing about the turmoils Jongin had been experiencing since the night he had that fucking nightmare and Kyungsoo had held him to sleep with the gentlest of touched and the softest of cradle songs.

 

Never towards Kyungsoo. It was Jongin who was a coward, and a heretic, and a non-believer—a confusion in one body, a paradox and a juxtaposition all in one.

 

“I see,” said Kyungsoo, sounding resigned and sad, lonely but understanding.

 

Jongin’s words were in his lungs and they were being set into slow flames. The ashes were floating everywhere, tickling his insides with a discomfiting sensation.

 

He did not correct Kyungsoo’s assumption.

 

Silence passed by and the crickets chirped, high pitched and loud. Neither of them startled.

 

“There’s food inside the basket,” Kyungsoo said when the stillness was too much to bear. One push and Jongin would edge close to slumber. Time seemed to have disappeared between the two of them. It was like being in another world.

 

“It’s not much,” Kyungsoo continued. Jongin detected anxiety in the man’s words and he could imagine the other fiddling with his hands or the hem of his top. His arms were crossed on top of his stomach too.

 

“I’m not hungry yet,” Jongin replied. There was not much to see from here, just the dark of the sky that was being revealed by the slow swaying of the leaves. The only thing worth looking at was an inch away but Jongin neither had the courage nor the composure.

 

He settled for the half-moon and stars—the entire cosmos—instead.

 

They still paled in comparison to the man lying beside him, oblivious.

 

“Why are we here, Kyungsoo?” He asked—just so there was no dead silence between the two of them. It was getting tiring, for Jongin.

 

“You’re here because you asked to come,” Kyungsoo replied. His breathing was shallow.

 

Jongin snorted despite himself and asked again, “Why are you here, Kyungsoo?”

 

For a moment, the older man did not answer. Jongin listened to the quiet intakes of air and wondered if it was already too steady, if Kyungsoo had fallen asleep on him.

 

“Today was the tenth of June,” he said before Jongin could turn around and check. The light danced on Jongin’s vision and he wondered what their shadows looked like—two boys in the dark, underneath the stars, an inch apart that felt like an entire border. Kyungsoo moved around and Jongin held himself still. He added, “Today was the day my parents were killed in front of me. It’s been—eighteen years, I think.”

 

Jongin’s stomach dropped even if he was lying down. June 10, 1950. It would be a flashback memory. Now he knew why there were dates you would never forget. Today could be one of those, the way eighteen years ago, the same day had been for Kyungsoo.

 

He was at lost for words and Jongin wanted to apologize but he felt like it would be for naught. He said, “Should I offer a prayer?”

 

“No,” Kyungsoo answered. He could hear the smile on the other man’s voice. “You don’t even believe in the person you’re praying to.” A pause and then, “I want to see them again, even once.”

 

“You do,” Jongin reaffirmed, unnecessary and uncalled for. “Are you sad?”

 

Kyungsoo hummed, answering, “I’m not as sad as I thought I would be.”

 

“It’s been eighteen years,” Jongin supplied.

 

“Yeah,” Kyungsoo said. “It felt like a tender bruise—the one that was old with all the yellow around and a little bit of purple in the middle. It used to feel like a fresh stab, a new one every single day.”

 

Jongin, who had known what both felt like and then some, nodded. He was not sure if Kyungsoo had seen but he did not have the words of comfort for the older man. Jongin was not a conversationalist when he let the muzzle and the rotation of the cylinder of his revolver speak for himself.

 

“How about you?” Kyungsoo asked, halted. Jongin waited. “Do you not commemorate the days of your parents’ deaths?”

 

Suddenly, he was made aware of the rosary around his neck. Just a mere mention, and Jongin was already taking irregular inhales of air.

 

He licked his bottom lip, and he answered, as truthful as a person like him could be, “I do not make a habit.”

 

“Of remembering?” Kyungsoo prompted.

 

“Of mourning,” said Jongin.

 

The wind howled but it did not feel cold at all. Kyungsoo was close to Jongin and heat was flaring in his belly like a furnace. Kyungsoo moved and Jongin felt the man’s shoulder brush against his. He stiffened up and he pressed his hands tighter on top of his stomach.

 

“I—” Kyungsoo stopped. The words were being swallowed and replaced, dying on the tip of Kyungsoo’s tongue. He did not move. Their shoulders were still touching “Are you not tired?”

 

Jongin was tired in many ways, of a lot of things, so he asked, “Of what?”

 

“Running away,” Kyungsoo answered with a resolve. Jongin felt intimately the movements of Kyungsoo’s shoulder every time he would take a breath. There was hitch in one of the words, the air collapsing within itself and toppling over the remaining syllables.

 

“I’m used to it,” said Jongin. “I’ve been running away my whole life.”

 

_From the war._

 

“From the war,” he added.

 

_From myself._

 

“From myself.” Jongin took a breath and he watched the stars wink at him, mocking.

 

_From—_

 

“From you,” he breathed out.

 

Jongin turned his neck to Kyungsoo’s direction. His ear was pressed to the blanket-covered ground. The older man snapped his neck so they were facing each other, a mirror image of the other person. He looked directly into Kyungsoo’s eyes and they were blown wide. The other man was biting his lower lip and there was a flush on his cheeks. 

 

Their shoulders were still touching. Their faces were so close that if Jongin leaned in, their noses would bump and, if he leaned some more, their lips would touch. Jongin did neither but he savored the serenity of the moment. The fissure between the two of them converged together, remaking the cracks and easily slotting within the broken jags.

 

Kyungsoo’s mouth was gaping, open and closing. Jongin thought the other man looked silly like that. His lashes were casting shadows and his lips were red—redder on the part that Kyungsoo had bitten.

 

Jongin let the air go thick. It felt like the aftermath of an explosion. The smoke was barely going up with how it viscous it was, remaining on the ground where they were. Post-explosion, the air smelled of sulfur and coal, a little bit of the saltpeter—like Cordite. 

 

This one, it smelled of the fresh soil and the abandoned forest and the nighttime summer air. Jongin vaguely thought that, any moment now, he would hear the trickling of the stream, slowly coming alive like the two of them.

 

Kyungsoo’s lips slowly pulled into a smile. The corners were twitching and Jongin wanted to reach out, caress the man’s high cheekbone with his thumb.

 

“Kim Jongin,” Kyungsoo sighed. There was laughter caught in between his breath. “Half the time I still want to deck you.”

 

Jongin felt weightless and he remembered that day. It was like this, too, soft and pleasant. Quiet. Kyungsoo shared half of what he had given to him and the lights played across the older male’s facial features, the shadows were the paints that colored him like a masterpiece.

 

“And the other half,” prompted Jongin.

 

“The other half—” A full smile bloomed on Kyungsoo’s face and Jongin was so close. He could see Kyungsoo’s lips form a heart and his eyes form crescents. Underneath, there were small folds of skin wrinkling and extending to the outer corners of his eyes like tiny wings. His cheeks looked full and, around Kyungsoo’s mouth, the lines of his own happiness were striking.

 

“I want—” The smile turned softer but no less beautiful. “I just _want you_ , Jongin.”

 

Jongin felt the words first before he heard them. It was an entire floodgate opening, pulling the trigger in an instant, of a gun whizzing without care. The words ruined him in the best way possible before they took the broken pieces and remade him whole, once again. Different and never the same, because the same words were poured over the imperfect cracks, the empty spaces, like hardening gold. A new scar, glittering and expensive. Beautiful.

 

Jongin turned to his side and Kyungsoo did too. He leaned in and their noses bumped just as he had imagined.

 

Their breathing was matched and even and Kyungsoo had opened his eyes. Jongin was not closing his anytime soon, feeling like he had been wanting this for a long time when, in reality, it was the tenth of June in 1950 and he had only been in the village for almost two months.

 

It felt longer.

 

The pause between them was palpable. Kyungsoo moved and the tip of his nose kissed Jongin’s, a phantom of a touch. Skin to skin.

 

Jongin leaned in closer, closing his eyes.

 

The first press of their lips together was the breath of fresh of air. Jongin had imagined this moment and his dreams were inferior compared to the reality. Kyungsoo’s lips were soft and a little chapped. His were too but neither of them were complaining. 

 

The pleasure was in the linger of their mouths against each other. No one wanted to let go. Jongin breathed in through his nose and he felt eyelashes brushing against his face, the gentlest of flutterings, hummingbird wings on his tanned skin.

 

Kyungsoo broke away first and Jongin opened his eyes, sitting up. The older man was on his back and he had this look on his face—something that Jongin could not name. Maybe it was amazement. Maybe it was disbelief.

 

Jongin smiled down at Kyungsoo and the man smiled back. Kyungsoo’s fingers were on his lips and he watched, entranced, as they trace the outline of the other man’s mouth. Kyungsoo’s chest was rising and falling steadily but, when Jongin gripped Kyungsoo’s free hand, the one not holding his lip, the pulse on the older man’s wrist was speeding.

 

His, too. His heartbeat was racing away, trying to chase Kyungsoo’s.

 

“Can I do that again?” Jongin asked, out of breath. They had not done anything and yet, the both of them were already feeling out of bounds. 

 

The silence made it feel like they were alone and Jongin felt brave, for once. Not for the first time, the atmosphere made it feel like they were in another world. And, distantly, he recalled what he had imagined before, lying on the daybed in Kyungsoo’s small yard, thinking of the older man lying next to him. He had thought then: _in another world_.

 

And then, now.

 

Jongin was still sitting up and Kyungsoo was still on resting on the blanket, back flat against the thick material.

 

“Kyungsoo?” Jongin asked after the other man had not answered.

 

Like coming out of a dream, or from the beneath the water, Kyungsoo blinked slowly. The drag of his eyelids was torturous in its languidness. The older man removed his fingers from his lips. Jongin followed the movements of Kyungsoo’s mouth when he replied, “Yes. Kiss me again.”

 

Jongin took a breath and, another. He took his time, roaming his eyes on Kyungsoo’s prone figure. His forehead, the high bridge of his nose that tapered to a round tip, his high cheekbones. His red lips, his bright eyes with their pupils wide and dark, the flush on his cheeks. 

 

Underneath Jongin’s hand, Kyungsoo’s pulse had yet to slow down. When he leaned down, he could feel it going faster from where his thumb was pressing down.

 

Kyungsoo remained on his back as Jongin partially hovered over him. Kyungsoo’s lips were slightly open and he took the time to bend down, his other free hand holding the side of Kyungsoo’s face. His finger rubbed on the soft skin of the other man’s cheek before Jongin caught Kyungsoo’s upper lip in between his. The bite was delicate and it sent heat pooling low on Jongin’s stomach.

 

He tilted his head to the side, letting go of the upper lip, just as he took the bottom one this time. The flesh was soft and Jongin’s teeth scraped on the thin skin, giving a small bite and allowing a lazy tug when he broke away.

 

Kyungsoo was lying motionless and Jongin moved, straddling the man. The light from the lamp was dancing on their faces when Jongin held Kyungsoo’s face in between his. The shadows were broken by his fingers cradling the older man.

 

Jongin tipped Kyungsoo’s chin up, just a little, and he dived back in again. The kiss was messier, more desperate, and their teeth chattered. Jongin licked Kyungsoo’s lip and the other male parted his lips for him to slip his tongue inside.

 

Kyungsoo’s warmth exploded without warning and all Jongin could taste was Kyungsoo, Kyungsoo, Kyungsoo. The sensation was heady and overwhelming and he took an inhale through his nose when the older man’s tongue started tangling against his, growing bold. 

 

He felt Kyungsoo’s hands press on his chest and he prepared himself to break the kiss but instead of a push, he felt the hands apply pressure on his chest before they slowly move sideways. The older man’s palms were resting flat on each side of Jongin’s torso and his fingers were lazily strumming on the ridges of muscles and the slight curve of his ribcage.

 

They were phantom touches over the phantom pains of his old scars. Kyungsoo’s hands were relentless in their slow movement downwards until his hands meet on Jongin’s abdomen, just above his belly button. With the thinness of his shirt, he could feel Kyungsoo tracing around his navel before he dug a finger in.

 

Jongin broke the kiss with a strangled moan and both of their eyes met, wide and dark. Kyungsoo’s eyelids were dropping and his lips were shiny and well kissed, dark red against his fair skin, colored with the glow of the lamp.

 

The air was humid and the temperature was hot on Jongin’s clothed back. Kyungsoo’s hands were still on his abdomen, his fingers were thumping on the hard planes with an erratic rhythm not unlike their heartbeats.

 

Jongin bent down again and his lips were soft and intimate on Kyungsoo’s. The older man took the lead this time and Jongin let him play the hem of his t-shirt, just as he settled in between Kyungsoo’s legs. The older man parted his thighs wider and Jongin avoided pressing too much of his weight down as his lips detached itself from Kyungsoo’s mouth.

 

He found himself mouthing along the older man’s strong jaw, kissing up and down and nipping on the skin. He gave butterflies down the length of Kyungsoo’s neck, barely there kisses that had the man underneath him keening and bucking. Jongin adjusted himself and he rested his forearm on the side of Kyungsoo’s head.

 

“Tug it loose,” he whispered against Kyungsoo’s pulse.

 

The older man heeded his words and one of his hands went from Jongin’s stomach to the tie binding his hanbok close. He pulled it apart and he brushed it away, not enough that it would come completely undone but enough that Jongin could see more of his skin.

 

He gave a warm kiss just below Kyungsoo’s collarbone before he licked the skin, tasting salt and remains of the older man’s bathing oil. He bit on the soft skin and Kyungsoo whined a high, “Jongin!”

 

The sound was quickly lost when Jongin hushed the other man with a soothing lick on the skin. His teeth were buried and imprinted pink on the pale skin. 

 

Jongin kissed it some more before his lips found Kyungsoo’s. His mouth latched on the older male’s bottom lip, thick and pouty in between his, and he pecked it with small bites. Jongin withdrew and he gave the abused flesh a kitten lick. His mouth was still hovering over Kyungsoo’s own in an almost kiss, gently grazing against one another.

 

Jongin murmured, “We don’t have anything.”

 

Kyungsoo laughed against his mouth and Jongin relished on the delicious sound. He rolled away so the both of them were lying side by side once more, with him facing Kyungsoo, who was taking shallow breaths while on his back.

 

After a moment, the older man moved to his side and he raised himself up. The hanbok fell open just a bit and Jongin reached to play with the piping of the fabric. His fingers were burning from where it had skimmed Kyungsoo’s chest. The ribs jutting out were made to sing a song when the pads of his fingers caressed every bone that they could.

 

“We’re not in a rush,” Kyungsoo said. And then, “I miss you.”

 

Jongin laughed and he stared at Kyungsoo’s face. There was open honesty on the older man’s features. Jongin wondered if he looked the same towards the other.

 

“We live in the same house. I share a room with you,” Jongin pointed out. He exhaled a breath and admitted, smiling, “I miss you, too, Kyungsoo.”

 

His head listed forward and Jongin pressed a close mouthed kiss on Kyungsoo’s lips again. He could feel the stretch of the other male’s lips on his in a grin. Jongin removed his lips so he could see Kyungsoo’s mouth pull from the middle towards the side, ear to ear.

 

“Why did you stop?” Kyungsoo asked, breathless and whiny.

 

“I want to watch you smile,” said Jongin.

 

The words made Kyungsoo’s cheeks color with an attractive shade. Jongin watched in amazement as the red he had known his whole life slowly morphed into the blush staining Kyungsoo’s cheeks. Jongin, helpless and mindless, kissed Kyungsoo again—slowly and passionately, a little bit lazy. The night faded away in the background and the sounds of the forest were eaten by their twinned breathing and their exclamations of pleasure.

 

Jongin felt the universe recreate itself from the sensation of Kyungsoo’s lips against his and the repeated whispers of _once more_ every time either of them parted from the another.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Time carved out for the both of them a slow stream of passing days. Jongin and Kyungsoo sighed throughout the hours and stole a moment every second. A stray touch, a passing glance, a hidden smile, the both of them had learned to treasure what they could have easily taken for granted.

 

“I’m making up for the lost time,” Kyungsoo said. He pulled his mattress close to Jongin’s until there was no space left in between the soft cushions.

 

Jongin was resting his head on top of his hand, elbow flat on the makeshift bed. He was lying on his side, one foot bobbing lazily while his free hand patted the line where their beds had met. It was another border, he thought.

 

When Kyungsoo lied down and faced him, Jongin forgot where his space had ended and where the older man’s had begun. Slowly, he could feel _Jongin and Kyungsoo_ becoming _Jongin-and-Kyungsoo._ The blanks in between were disappearing every hour, every minute, every second. Every time they share a kiss away from the prying eyes, Jongin would feel Kyungsoo’s presence lodge himself deeper into his own—one existence and another, blurring the edges with the certainty of each other.

 

Time moved as if it was composed of multiple snapshots—one photograph for everything they do together or apart. It felt like centuries had passed since the night they had shared. Over an old blanket and beneath the stars, the memory was held close and tender. The whisper of the winds mingled with the sounds of their moans was a brand of music that Jongin would put inside a box to keep.

 

In reality, time had been generous. It had not even been a week since then.

 

Everything about Kyungsoo, Jongin had learned, seemed too slow and too fast at the same time. He felt like they could have more of each other this way. Jongin could take Kyungsoo in parts, the small intermittence of their relationship amidst the secrecy. He would build himself a collection of things and events that made up Do Kyungsoo—from who he was before everything, before Jongin, and then during.

 

Kyungsoo lied down and rolled over, snuggling close. He said, “There you are again. With the all the deep thinking.”

 

Jongin huffed, joked, “You could try it some other time.”

 

The older man snorted and, instead of on his own pillow, he rested his head on Jongin’s outstretchedarm, rearranging Jongin’s limbs so they’re both lying on their backs. He stiffened a little bit at the contact but everything was so new to Jongin—a novelty. Every contact felt like it was the first time.

 

Kyungsoo did not move and Jongin, slowly, relaxed with a slow exhale of breath. The older man did, too, when he felt Jongin curl his free arm towards the both of them, extending to Kyungsoo’s stomach where it had lied.

 

Their sides were pressed tight together and the warmth was comfortable. The night bled into the feeling of early morning summer days if Jongin closed his eyes and imagined. Everything seemed more pleasant this way, with Kyungsoo beside him.

 

The both of them turned into pliant children with each other—puzzle pieces turning into adventures, treating each other like a wander and a discovery.

 

Jongin turned his head and he placed a kiss on the top of Kyungsoo’s head, against the soft pillow of the older man’s dark hair, before he did the same on one temple.

 

“What’s with you tonight?” Kyungsoo asked.

 

“Nothing,” Jongin answered. “Do you not like it?”

 

“I like it,” Kyungsoo grinned. “I like you this way. You feel whole—more human.”

 

Jongin’s fingers started moving on Kyungsoo’s stomach, crawling on their tips across the expanse that he could reach. The fabric of Kyungsoo’s sleepwear was thin and worn out. “What do you mean by that?”

 

Kyungsoo hummed, sighed, “I don’t know.” He craned his head to the side and their eyes met. Jongin traced the older man’s face and Kyungsoo did the same to him. A second passed and the man said, “You’ve always been human to me. Since you have read me that book. Kim Jongin became more than a soldier that day. Even before that. Maybe when you gave me that leftover fish.”

 

Jongin smiled, said, “It was the fish all along? You’re a cheap man, Do Kyungsoo.”

 

“Is that a bad a thing?” 

 

Jongin smiled, genuine and large. He dropped another kiss on Kyungsoo’s temple. He whispered the revelation on the older male’s soft skin like it was an almost kiss, dancing on the edges of the definition. “It’s not a bad thing.” He kissed Kyungsoo’s temple again. “It worked well for me.”

 

The seconds passed as they bask in the moment and Kyungsoo’s breathing had started evening out. The older male had sunk deep into Jongin’s arm and had sidled closer to his side to seek more heat.

 

“I like you this way, too,” Jongin confessed when he felt the sudden surge of warmth from where Kyungsoo had buried himself. He was looking at him while the other was looking at the ceiling with a contemplative twist on his lips.

 

“How so?” said Kyungsoo. His words had already gone raspy, a little bit of sleep clouding over the deep timbre of his voice. Scratchy.

 

“In my arms,” said Jongin, drawling the last syllable in blatant teasing.

 

The older male laughed at that—loud and boisterous that broke the stillness of the atmosphere they had created. He was shaking in Jongin’s arms and one of his hand pinched the skin on the back of Jongin’s hand, the one resting across their torsos.

 

“You could make a career out of being a comedian,” he said.

 

Jongin chuckled, retorting, “I don’t have the sense of humor.”

 

“You do,” Kyungsoo defended vehemently. “You’re funny—sometimes.”

 

“Only sometimes?” Jongin’s fingers traced mindless shapes on Kyungsoo’s stomach, whatever of it he could touch. He felt the older male shiver, ghost caresses lighting up the skin underneath his clothes.

 

“You’re not really the joking type,” said Kyungsoo. His tone was light, content and floaty. “You said you don’t have the sense of humor to be a comedian.”

 

“Yes,” Jongin breathed out, helpless. “I like it when you praise me.”

 

“Is that the soldier in you speaking?”

 

“No,” Jongin placed another kiss on Kyungsoo’s temple. And then a little bit down, nearer to the man’s eyebrow. “That’s just Kim Jongin.”

 

“Oh, him,” Kyungsoo shrugged, as if careless. He sounded impish, like a child fresh out of the playground. “I like that Kim Jongin man.”

 

“Hm hm,” Jongin hummed low in agreement. “That Kim Jongin must be really handsome.”

 

“Are you fishing?” Kyungsoo mocked. He pressed himself closer to Jongin’s side, said, “He really is. Handsome. He looks like a movie star.”

 

“I could be,” Jongin said with a raised brow. Kyungsoo made a questioning noise on the back of his throat, vibrating against Jongin’s side from where the other man had buried himself in. “If I was not born where I had been. When I had been.”

 

“Do you want to be?” Kyungsoo asked. Jongin felt the other man shift from beside him, wriggling so his head was propped up on Jongin’s chest. He felt himself stop breathing, for a second or two. Kyungsoo’s head was a distinct weight, different from the pressure he had put upon himself and the sins of the years past.

 

“Not really but,” Jongin gave the shorter man a wry grin. “It’s better than this one, right?”

 

Kyungsoo paused, biting his lower lips, before replying, “Right.” Comfortable silence washed over the two of them and Jongin held Kyungsoo closer. Just this once, he told himself. Just this once and he would let go after daybreak. “I’d be a singer.”

 

“You want to be an entertainer?” Jongin’s thumb pressed on Kyungsoo’s hipbone, rubbing circles above the thin material of the man’s sleepwear.

 

“Kind of,” Kyungsoo sighed and nestled closer. “If I was born fifty years into the future, it would be nice to earn money just by singing. Deaf on one ear and famous. It sounds good, no?”

 

“Too good,” Jongin chuckled. His fingers had started trailing on Kyungsoo’s side, slow and barely there—featherlight phantoms of his touches. “If you’re a singer, then I would be a dancer. I want to dance to the sound of your voice.”

 

“I thought you wanted to be a comedian,” the older man pointed out as Jongin made a noise low on his throat. Kyungsoo scoffed playfully, “Do you even know how to dance?”

 

“No,” Jongin admitted, shy. “I don’t have much options for hobbies, growing up.”

 

Kyungsoo nodded solemnly against his side. He could feel the man’s breath on his skin and his hair was ticking the underside of his jaw like a playful kiss. The older male added, “If we were born in the year 2000, do you think the world would be different?”

 

The question hung in the air like a noose—the world could be different in many ways. 

 

“We would meet in 2024,” he answered after a pause. His voice was soft and low, almost as if he was praying. “I hope we do, you know? Meet in a different lifetime than this one. Maybe there would not be any parallels in the middle of the Peninsula.”

 

Kyungsoo tilted his head upwards and his lips were soft on the corner of Jongin’s mouth. He murmured against the skin, “I’m not sure where. But I want a place that was warm. We could meet in a different country than this one.” 

 

Jongin hummed and he tipped his head lower so Kyungsoo could kiss his mouth properly. He caught the older man’s upper lip, swiping his tongue on the delicate skin, before letting go.

 

“I could kiss you like this fifty years into the future,” said Jongin.

 

There was silence before he joked, “Or the world could end in the year 2000.” Kyungsoo snorted a short laugh.

 

“You always ruin the moment.” Kyungsoo exhaled a breath and the rise on fall of his chest had slowed down. He added, “You’re morbid.”

 

“Sorry,” Jongin answered, insincere. Kyungsoo teasingly snarled at him. “We can have as many moments as you want.”

 

And then, “Do you hate it? My cynicism?”

 

“No,” Kyungsoo replied quickly. Too quick. Jongin felt the man’s Adam’s apple bob up and down before he amended. “Hate is a strong word. I don’t—I don’t hate it. But. I don’t like it either.”

 

An apology rested on the roof of Jongin’s mouth but before he could say anything, Kyungsoo had already begun speaking again. “No need to say sorry,” he said. “It’s who you are. It makes you Kim Jongin just as the ugly parts of me make me Do Kyungsoo. You don’t have to force yourself to change for me. I’m the one who should accept that.”

 

“I—” Jongin could not find the words within himself so he pressed another tender kiss on Kyungsoo’s hair. The older man smelled of summer—a little bit like the cleaning soap in the bathroom, a little bit like the breeze, a little bit like flowers. He was a little bit of everything, to Jongin. Unable to form any more coherence, he murmured, “Thank you, Kyungsoo.”

 

The older male hummed and Jongin closed his eyes. The darkness did not feel as stifling when there was another solid presence on his side. One of the man’s legs found itself lodge in between Jongin’s and the two of them wrapped each other inside the cage of their arms. Jongin pressed one last kiss on the other’s temple, and he whispered, to the silence, “Good night.”

 

Outside, it did not feel like there was something amiss. That there was something about to happen that would shake the foundations of their very relationship. Of their very existence. Kyungsoo was in Jongin’s arms and Jongin was in Kyungsoo’s. And somehow, that was enough. 

 

Kyungsoo was the only good thing amidst all the bad.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

There was a war inside the borders of the Korean peninsula.

 

There was a war inside the edges of Jongin’s consciousness.

 

And then, there was Kyungsoo, lying beside him—their pulses rabbiting and their lips still tingling with the remnants of their kisses.

 

And somehow, that was it—it was that easy.

 

 

 

 


	5. amidst

**_June 23, 1950_ **

 

The apex of Jongin’s life quickly disappeared with the changing of the moon. One moment, his hands were enveloping the whole world—his for the taking—and the next, the very world he had created fell apart to the sound of three subsequent knocks a little over the nineteenth hour of the day, when he and Kyungsoo were drinking a mug of herbal tea each just after they had finished dinner.

 

Kyungsoo’s eyebrows rose to his hairline but he scooted farther, dragging his ass across the floor so there was distance between their thighs. Jongin missed the warmth the moment it disappeared—already knowing it was a second too long without Kyungsoo’s clothed skin against his.

 

“Who?” The man asked, wary. His shoulders were tense.

 

“Sehun,” Jongin answered simply as he stood up. Before he turned away, he leaned down and pushed his index finger in between the older male’s furrowed brows, smoothing the wrinkles of distress etched on the skin.

 

“It’s just Sehun,” Jongin whispered, repeated in a manner that he thought of was reassuring. It was a performance to watch the downturn of Kyungsoo’s lips slowly move upward, not smiling but not frowning either. That, in the time of death and famine, was the only thing Jongin could have wanted. The folds between Kyungsoo’s eyes loosened and Jongin allowed himself the indulgence of a quirked mouth. His forefinger trailed over Kyungsoo’s bushy eyebrow before it moved downwards, a ghost of a touch on the smooth skin of the other’s cheekbone and the angular slope of his jawline.

 

Jongin withdrew his touch and, as if it was instinct, Kyungsoo leaned and chased the sensation of the rough pad of his finger. The smile on his face turned a little brighter as Kyungsoo’s shoulders slumped, the tension bleeding out from them. He walked to the front door with spring in his every movement like the gait of a carefree man which he was not, in reality.

 

Opening the door, Jongin was greeted by the sight of Sehun’s characteristically stoic face. The taller man’s lips were pursed thin and his eyes were flitting to the space beside Jongin’s right ear, sneaking a glance inside the muted lighting of Kyungsoo’s living room. Sehun turned his flashlight off.

 

“We have to stop meeting like this,” Jongin joked.

 

Sehun grimaced and deadpanned, “We had radio communication from the base, Senior Lieutenant.”

 

Jongin flinched and the action was not missed by his second-in-command. He stepped out of the house and he closed the door, quiet and careful. Outside, it was chilly with the breeze and dark with the half moon and the uncharacteristic clouds over the supposedly glittering stars.

 

The only sound was the nighttime melody of the countryside.

 

“What is it?” Jongin asked. He was neither wearing his uniform nor carrying a firearm but it did not matter. A soldier was a soldier and a leader was a leader.

 

Sehun sighed and there was a droop in his broad shoulders, sinking down underneath the weight of his revelation. He answered swiftly, “Troops will come tomorrow.”

 

Jongin felt his breath get caught in his throat as his pulse thundered in his ears. He could feel the pounding on his neck and on his wrist. His stomach dropped and churned, warring.

 

“So soon?” He tried to make sure. There was no prior notice except the last one, about the Soviet generals and the plan they had come up with.

 

“Yes,” was the other man’s simple answer.

 

“Logistics?” He snapped.

 

In attention, Sehun recited—monotone, no emotion betraying the steady stream of numbers, “Major Gwak with the rest of the unit. With us, 231 in total. And fresh armaments. Jeeps and armored tanks.”

 

“Fuck,” Jongin swore long. He dragged the syllable as his composure faltered. He brought his right hand to his forehead and he massaged one of his temples, rubbing circular motions on the beginnings of a throbbing headache. He tried to contain the shooting pain—nothing was worse than getting shot at while his brain was ripping itself apart from the inside out.

 

“I presume the battalion’s ready somewhere?”

 

“Correct. Near the 38th Parallel,” Sehun replied. There was a lull of silence and, just as Jongin thought that it was over, the younger soldier added, “The 105th is getting ready. Major General Rang will take the lead to move down South.”

 

Jongin should have known. Nothing was truly over, in a sense, when it was war. The peninsula was going to be a bloodbath marked with the hoarse screams of the civilians. _Like Kyungsoo_ , Jongin thought with dread as the coldness of the night air seeped under his skin and into his veins.

 

“Rang hates Syngman Rhee with a fucking passion,” Sehun grumbled when he did not answer. It seemed to him that the younger male was trying to fill the silence with his usual brand of coarse humor and even coarser language.

 

Jongin knew in that moment—Sehun was scared.

 

Just as he was.

 

“He does,” he nodded. His eyes refused to look away at the realization dawning on the lieutenant’s face. “Rang will want everyone dead in the course of liberation.” The whisper of admission was not loss on the male and then, like a different person, he asked stately, “Any orders?”

 

Sehun bit his lower lip as hesitation took over his grim features in an instant. The juxtaposition was not amiss and Jongin realized how young Sehun truly was—how young they both were. There was a tick in his sharp jaw before he remarked, “We are to take all the sympathizers to the South and execute them. All of the able-bodied men are to go and march with us.”

 

The man’s eyes moved from Jongin’s to the closed door. He did not follow the path of Sehun’s stare but Jongin knew, more than anyone else, what it had meant.

 

“As internees?” Weight settled on the pit of his stomach as images of old buildings, crumbling and shitty, flooded his mind’s eyes—protruding ribs and gaunt faces, the smell of sweat and grime, the hunger and the desperation.

 

“Military sanctioned draft,” Sehun replied.

 

 _Forced participation,_ Jongin heard.

 

It seemed that Sehun did too. What was unspoken was not always left misunderstood. Jongin eyed the man and the slump of his shoulders was more noticeable, the width of it was lacking the usual strength. He raised his chin, haughty and fake, as he ordered, “Fix your stance, Lieutenant Oh. You’re a soldier of the North Korean People’s Army.”

 

Sehun startled at that and he snapped into attention—feet together and the breadth of his torso appearing stronger. The twist of his mouth had gone down, a little, but the remaining apprehension was stark on his gaze. His fingers, Jongin saw, were trembling. Without heed, he tapped Sehun’s cheek with his fingers, a light slap that was meant to be a reminder and a reprimand. The younger man did not flinch.

 

“Get the men ready tomorrow for company.” With a foreboding sigh, he added, “Before the end of June, we will go to war.”

 

His pulse remained to be chasing the last dose of adrenaline when he gave Sehun a curt nod and a thanks. The lieutenant tipped his head—neither of them bothered with a salute—before he turned away with the flick of the flashlight he was carrying.

 

Jongin remained outside, watching Sehun’s disappearing form as the beam slowly disappeared with the other man’s walking figure. Darkness ate away the last imprints of the male but the message from the base was disconcerting. He took a deep breath and his legs gave away. Jongin allowed his knees to buckle underneath him as he leaned his upper back to the hard rock that was the wall of Kyungsoo’s house.

 

His breathing turned labored before he cursed a low _shit._ He pressed his palm to his chest, deep and heavy with the pressure, as he tried to curb the first wave of panic from happening. The thought of the person inside the four walls of this home had his heart beating erratic and he himself trembling like a leaf or a newborn foal.

 

He thought: _what had Kyungsoo done to him?_

 

Jongin took another inhale and kept it inside for a while. This time, when he exhaled, he let his breath stream slowly from his mouth to the awaiting night air. His head lolled on the concrete, the column of his neck bare to the slight chill as goosebumps rose on his arms.

 

He allowed himself the momentary respite, trying to empty his mind of explosions and gun shots, the familiar sounds of air strikes and raids, the shifting of waves around naval forces. Jongin imagined himself back in Wonsan—inside that godforsaken house with poor heating before the NKPA went ahead and took him, before he said yes without knowing the consequences. He suddenly felt a pang on the skin of his palms and he straightened up, not mindful that he had curled his hands into fists and his blunt nails had dug into the callouses and scars.

 

The crescents were pink with the beginning traces of shallow blood.

 

Jongin combed his fingers through his hair in frustration, releasing a low noise, before he walked to the door. When he slid it open, Jongin’s stopped breathing.

 

“Kyungsoo,” he whispered brokenly.

 

The older man was standing on the foyer with a stricken expression, frozen in place with the betrayal. The light from the lamp in the living room was blocked by the male’s figure, casting a shadow on the both of them. Dancing.

 

“Kyungsoo,” Jongin repeated. His hand stretched out towards Kyungsoo’s arm but it grasped thin air when the other flinched, shrinking into himself. There was a glare on his face that Jongin had been acquainted with during the early days of their non relationship. “Did you hear anything?”

 

The stutter was not in Jongin’s voice but in his heartbeat. He could feel the sudden jump when the shorter man looked up to him with an open face—hostile and betrayed, like he was seeing Jongin for the first time as a strange man.

 

“Yes,” Kyungsoo answered in a terrible tone. He was quivering. His neck was tight and his Adam’s apple was visibly bobbing. Jongin watched as Kyungsoo blinked at him slowly, eyes with a sheen that he was familiar with. His eyelashes were dark, the shadows imprinted on the thin skin were thick and attractive as every lash had a little curl to them.

 

“All of it. I heard all of it. About—about the war… And the soldiers—about the… About taking the people.” Jongin shuddered as he seemingly coiled within himself at the older male’s. He thought as he looked at the other: _what have I done?_

 

Jongin took a step forward. Kyungsoo took a step back.

 

The air was stifling, viscous and heavy, when he saw Kyungsoo’s toes against the wooden floors, looking like he was ready to bolt out from the house, or anywhere else as long as he was far enough from Jongin. Kyungsoo’s eyes told him enough—“I am afraid of you.”

 

Jongin took another step forward and Kyungsoo took two back.

 

There was a moment of silence between the both of them and, without warning or preamble, Kyungsoo ran to the direction of his bedroom with a sound that was half way between a sob and a growl. Jongin went after him, giving chase with a shout of warning.

 

“Kyungsoo! Where are you going?” Jongin almost slipped on but he managed to follow the man. Neither of them managed to slide the thin door separating their bedroom to the living room. Kyungsoo was pulling out a square cloth and braided ropes, laying them flat on the floor in front of the opened drawers. The older man was visibly trembling as he pulled articles of clothing, not bothering to fold them neatly.

 

“What are you doing?” Jongin panted, feeling cold all of a sudden. He had an idea but—

 

“Leaving,” Kyungsoo answered. Or tried to. The older male looked out of it as he skittered around the room, almost falling down when he tripped over the mattresses on the floor—side by side with no space in between them.

 

“You can’t leave,” Jongin pressed, standing near Kyungsoo but giving him space, just a little so that neither of them would be burned by the electricity coursing through the tensioned air.

 

“I can leave,” Kyungsoo snapped. “I’m not going to stay here while you take my village away. While you take me away.” He was breathing heavily as Jongin waited for the explosions. Kyungsoo turned to him and made good of that promise. One glance and there it was—a condensed war amidst a condensed space. “I’m not going to allow the rest of you to take my dignity and my beliefs away. I’m not going to stand by as you take who I am away from me.”

 

Kyungsoo spat the words towards him so acidly that Jongin felt like a monster. Every curl of the man’s pink lips around the words had him feeling small and guilty. A weight settled on his stomach as the phantom pains of what he had gone through acted up, slowly and then, rabbit fast. Every pain at once.

 

“You can’t,” Jongin said, begged. His shoulders were slumping down. “You’re going to die, Kyungsoo.”

 

“Better to die that way,” Kyungsoo shrugged and it infuriated Jongin—the low value Kyungsoo had placed on his own life when he was standing right beside him, ready to go on his knees and clutch onto the older man’s legs like a toddler so he would not leave.

 

“You’re so stupid,” Jongin huffed. Kyungsoo turned to him with an acerbic glare but Jongin continued on, unmindful and trying desperately for Kyungsoo to see the logic. “Kyungsoo, there are soldiers flanking the border on both sides. You’re going to get yourself killed before you even reach your destination.”

 

“Let it be,” Kyungsoo threw back, chin haughty and strong. Jongin hated how beautiful the older man looked even when he was downright pissing him off.

 

“Where are you even going to go?” Jongin’s chuckle was mocking as he finally— _finally_ —took hold of Kyungsoo’s upper arm. His hand almost circled it almost all the way through and he wondered how someone who looked so thin could survive the coming months of war—death and hunger, sometimes not even the bodily kind. Jongin wanted to cry.

 

“South,” Kyungsoo replied. He tried to shake off Jongin’s hold on him but Jongin was stronger, only tightening his own grip. His fingers dug into the flesh, almost to the bone, and there would be bruising, he knew, but Kyungsoo was being stupidly reckless.

 

“South?” He repeated, jeering. “You’d be dead before you cross the border, Kyungsoo. All for what? Your pride?”

 

“Yes,” Kyungsoo said, defiant. Jongin was so frustrated as he watched that mouth twist, extending outwards. The older man’s eyes were twinkling from the orange glow of the lamp, burning. Jongin could barely smell the petroleum and the early days of his own haphazard military career during war time in China what with his senses being assaulted and overwhelmed by _Kyungsoo, Kyungsoo, Kyungsoo_.

 

“You don’t understand!” Jongin half screamed, holding Kyungsoo harder and pulling him into his embrace. He enveloped his arms all around the male’s figure, pressing him close and not letting go. Kyungsoo resisted, making noises on the back of his throat as he tried to withdraw from Jongin’s arms. Jongin held him tighter, afraid, as he whispered harshly, “Don’t you get it, Kyungsoo? They’re going to kill you. You’re going to die at the hands of anyone—the North, the South, the United fucking States of America!”

 

Jongin felt Kyungsoo move away from him and the man had almost wiggled himself out of his hold. He saw Kyungsoo’s wide eyes, angry, and Jongin held the man’s shoulders, bending low and pressing a kiss on his lips. As if the touch was enough to bring Kyungsoo to reality—the way he did to Jongin. As if it was enough to convince the man to stay—here, with Jongin.

 

It was not like the kisses they had shared before. Jongin’s mouth was rough on Kyungsoo’s and the other male was not returning the kiss. Jongin tried to coax the shorter man’s lips to move against his and he bit on the bottom lip, hard enough that Kyungsoo groaned. He slipped his tongue inside and he prodded and licked every corner, tracing the back of Kyungsoo’s teeth, poking the man’s tongue with his. Jongin felt the hands on him slacken before they grasped the material of his shirt, shoving him away.

 

Kyungsoo’s eyes were blazing and his lip was red from where Jongin had bitten him. His mouth was gaping, slick with spit and he was shaking with barely concealed fury. To Jongin’s eyes, he looked like a brewing thunderstorm over the horizon—beautiful and destructive.

 

Jongin welcomed the catastrophe as Kyungsoo surged, pushing him backwards. The older man hooked his ankle against his and he allowed the fall to happen, back on the thin mattress on the floor. He released a loud groan that was ignored by the older man. Jongin felt weight settle on top of him and he allowed everything—willingly welcomed every press on his skin. Kyungsoo climbed on top of Jongin’s torso, straddling his hips, as he bent down to kiss him, equally harsh—no trace of tenderness in their movements.

 

He gripped Kyungsoo’s waist and he tried to put as much force behind it as he could, trying to burn his mark on the unblemished skin—bruises of ownership. Kyungsoo’s mouth was moving, erratic and uncaring as he too bit Jongin’s tender lip. Jongin gave an unholy moan that broke the silence of the night. The sound of it reverberated on the walls, washing over the two of them. On top of him, Kyungsoo shook before he felt the man’s lips detach from his, moving upwards.

 

Teeth nipped on the delicate skin before Kyungsoo caught Jongin’s earlobe in between his teeth, giving it a tug. Jongin groaned, “Fuck, Kyungsoo,” as his hips bucked up to meet the other male’s, desperate and wanton.

 

“You feel so good on me. So, so good.” Jongin rambled, almost losing himself at the touches, barely there and not even much.

 

He could feel the quirk of the man’s lips, maybe a smirk, as the other moved to straddle Jongin’s thigh this time. His knee pushed near Jongin’s groin as telltale warmth pooled in Jongin’s belly. Kyungsoo grazed his teeth on the skin of his jaw, dragging it slow and alternating the jagged motion with open mouthed kisses. Jongin lied on the mattress as sweat beaded on his forehead and back as Kyungsoo had his way with him.

 

The other male’s knee rubbed on him and his cock gained interest quickly, blood rushing down south. Jongin gripped Kyungsoo’s hair hard, pulling the man from where he was placing bites.

 

Kyungsoo’s back arched from the sudden motion and the length of his neck was displayed—smooth and tempting. The man glared at him from his perch and, mockingly said, off handed, “You’ll miss my lips on you. You’ll miss me because I’ll be the best you will ever have.”

 

Jongin’s hand tightened on Kyungsoo’s hair and the older man grimaced but did not move away. Jongin clenched his abdomen, his other hand going on Kyungsoo’s lower back as he flipped the both of them easily enough. Kyungsoo did not seem shocked as this time, he was the one lying on his back with Jongin hovering over his form.

 

“I’ll miss you because,” he snarled—surprising himself with the rush of anger, and something else. He cut himself off, afraid to say something that neither of them were ready for, that he was not ready for. “I’ll miss you so fucking much, Kyungsoo.”

 

He leaned down and bit the side of Kyungsoo’s neck. Hands tangled on his hair as Kyungsoo whined high. Jongin was on top of the other man, the width of his hip being accommodated by Kyungsoo’s opened legs. Hot thighs pressed on the side of his body, plush and soft.

 

Jongin caught Kyungsoo’s wrists on both of his hands as he pinned it on top of the man’s head. He raised himself slightly, enjoying the view from where he was. Below him, Kyungsoo was panting and there was a large mark on his neck—unmistakable above the folds of the top of his hanbok. The other man’s clothes were still in place and Jongin transferred both wrists in one hand so the other was free to play with the ribbon tying the cloth together.

 

Kyungsoo’s breath hitched as Jongin tugged on the strip, the knot coming partially undone. Jongin pushed the fabric to the side, showing more of Kyungsoo’s pale skin. Uncharted and unmapped, a brand new colony.

 

“You make me so mad,” Jongin admitted, biting another patch of skin. Kyungsoo arched his back and his pelvis brushed Jongin’s, legs moving on the side of his torso. Jongin groaned. “You make me feel a lot of things.”

 

Kyungsoo did not try to resist the hold that he had on him. Instead he bit his lip before raising his head. Jongin met the older male half way and Kyungsoo immediately tangled their tongues in a lip lock, wet and messy and hungry. Desperation at its finest.

 

Kyungsoo bit Jongin’s lower lip hard and he yelped, hold loosening on Kyungsoo’s wrists. The man smirked again and he was reminded of the Kyungsoo that he had met for the first time—all hostility and wit. That there was that Kyungsoo, and there was the Kyungsoo that would melt underneath the movements of his fingers, and that they were both one and the same.

 

Kyungsoo smiled, though it was absent of warmth. The older male had yet to withdraw from the loose grip that Jongin had on him. He felt like the prey, even if he was the one on top.

 

“What are you waiting for?” Kyungsoo asked, mocked, but his breathing was also heavy. Jongin felt the man’s hip roll under him and the friction of their clothed groins sent another shock of electricity. He adjusted himself, moving so he was straddling just one thigh—a little like Kyungsoo’s position a while ago.

 

He sat on it firmly before he removed his hands on Kyungsoo’s wrists. His cock was heavy against Kyungsoo’s soft flesh. The older man rotated his wrists before he brought them on the edge of Jongin’s shirt.

 

“You’re wearing too much, Senior Lieutenant Kim.” Jongin’s breath was stuck in his lungs, flaming hot at the inappropriate use of his rank. The title came out in a lazy drawl alongside the slow blinking of Kyungsoo’s wide eyes, hooded with lust. Fingers grazed the hem of his tee as it slipped underneath, tracing the skin and some of the scars. Jongin flinched but the short nails on the jagged skin of his abdomen did not calm his erection down.

 

He ground hard on Kyungsoo’s thighs as the pulled his shirt up, palms flat on the planes of his stomach. Kyungsoo traced the lines of his muscles, humming, “I quite like the view down he—”

 

The moan that cut the man’s comment off was loud when one of Jongin’s hands palmed the front of Kyungsoo’s trousers, feeling the hardening length underneath the coarse fabric. He gave a slow smile when Kyungsoo thrusted his hips up, wanting more friction.

 

“Jongin,” he keened, frustrated.

 

“What happened to calling me Senior Lieutenant?” He teased. Kyungsoo’s glare was baleful but the anger from before, he noticed, was slowly evaporating as he moved against Kyungsoo’s thigh again, dick rubbing on the clothed leg.

 

“Shut the fuck up,” Kyungsoo complained, reaching up once more to pull Jongin’s shirt off. He took mercy on the man and he quickly shed the article of clothing. Kyungsoo’s hands wasted no time in mapping the bare skin, and Jongin curled himself inwards slightly, conscious of the scars marring his torso.

 

Kyungsoo clicked his tongue, “No need to be shy now, Jongin.” There was conviction in his voice as he sat up slightly, looping his arms around Jongin’s neck and pulling the man down in a heated kiss. Unlike before, this one was slower as they both try to savor the moment and the taste—herbal tea with the last drop of expensive honey.

 

The older man’s lips were soft against his and Jongin nibbled on the tender flesh, as he ate away the sound of Kyungsoo’s moans every time he would move his hip against the man’s thigh. He cupped Kyungsoo through his clothes, giving the older male’s cock a light squeeze.

 

Brokenly, Kyungsoo whispered, “Fuck,” as his thigh rutted on Jongin’s dick. “Is this all we’re going to do, Jongin?”

 

He smiled at that, looking down at the flush on the older male’s face. “This looks enough for you.”

 

Kyungsoo gave him a withering glance as he pulled on the fabric of his hanbok harshly. It opened in an instant, billowing onto the mattress. Jongin drank in the sight of the man’s thin body—ribs protruding but belly soft. His hands went to Kyungsoo’s side, outlining the curve and the ribcage, like plucking the strings on the guitar, pinching the skin and leaving featherlight imprints.

 

Jongin felt his heart thunder inside his chest cavity as Kyungsoo continued to stare up at him through the thicket of his lashes. There was a certain untouchable quality that clung to him—an innocence that was neither on the man’s mind nor on his personality but on the quality of life he had lived and experienced.

 

If Jongin was made up of other people and other countries, then Kyungsoo was the outsider—the side effects, in multiples, dominos falling down to the sound of explosions, composed of the notes hidden beneath every ring of a whizzing gun interspersed with the whistle of the countryside breeze and the flowing stream.

 

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. Kyungsoo was under him, red lips and red cheeks—the color that he had been so familiar with throughout his life but never this way. Never this way again.

 

He felt the sudden tide of emotions overcome him—everything in a second: the future, the past, and the present in one big confluence. He leaned his forehead on Kyungsoo’s shoulder, said and pleaded, “Kyungsoo, don’t go.”

 

Jongin latched his mouth on the older male’s skin, below his neck. Instead of a harsh bite, he placed a tender kiss—a fluttering butterfly against the warm plane of Kyungsoo’s skin. He closed his eyes and inhaled the other man’s scent, letting the rhythm of their twinned heartbeats lull him.

 

“Don’t go,” he murmured again. Jongin’s mouth kissed Kyungsoo’s clavicle, tracing the length of the protruding bone repeatedly. Kyungsoo made a low moan that broke off into a keening cry. Jongin wondered if Kyungsoo’s toes were curling just as he could feel his. The older man was trembling and Jongin moved so he was in between Kyungsoo’s legs.

 

His hands ghosted upwards, from Kyungsoo’s flank to the man’s awkwardly positioned arms. He linked both of their hands together, filling the empty spaces between their fingers. Jongin raised his upper body, balanced on both of his elbows, as he gazed at the man lying beneath him. His breath left his lungs in an instant at the image before him.

 

Kyungsoo was looking up, eyes hooded and dark, his lashes damp with unshed tears. His lips were racked with tremors and his cheeks were flushed high. The top he was wearing was half way into falling off of his body cleanly, as bones pressed tight against delicate skin. His right shoulder was bare. There was a large mark blooming red and purple on his neck from where Jongin had bitten the area sharply.

 

Helpless, Jongin kissed Kyungsoo on the lips—mouth closed and gentle, the way someone like Kyungsoo deserved to be kissed, every single time. The male’s hands disentangled from where Jongin had held it in his but they instantly cupped his face, fingers running along the strong curve of his jaw.  He could live with this, he thought.

 

Jongin kissed Kyungsoo with all that he felt, with all that he was.

 

He knew, this could be the last time.

 

When their lips parted, Jongin watched as Kyungsoo’s face opened into a slow smile. It was tentative, at first, but it blossomed into something wider, something more precious that Jongin wanted to keep it with him, always.

 

Like the rosary, a special memento of a period of his life—the longest summer Jongin had experienced.

 

“I don’t want you to die, Kyungsoo,” Jongin begged against the man’s collarbone, mouthing the words around the expanse of skin. And then, “Anyone but you. Please.”

 

Jongin kissed Kyungsoo’s skin reverently—the only time he could ever be reverent, he thought. He sucked a delicate bruise on the hollow on the base of the older man’s neck, right in between the paired bones of his clavicle.

 

He repeated, making sure, “Anyone but you, darling.”

 

Kyungsoo gasped when the nickname slipped out of Jongin’s tongue. Jongin, too, was startled but he looked the older man in the eye, adamant. There was a dare under the softness of his stare and Kyungsoo met his eyes head on. The other male’s fingers on his jawline remained where they were, drumming on the skin lightly and painting little circles on the relief of it.

 

“Sweetheart,” Kyungsoo murmured and he brought Jongin’s face down, kissing him back tenderly.

 

The heat that was steady in the pit of Jongin’s stomach from the waves of lust and need was eaten up by the warmth the was Do Kyungsoo in his entirety—the man, the nobody, one of the strongest Jongin had met, deaf in one ear with a sharp twist to his words. Kyungsoo was an eternity of rhythms that Jongin would spend years chasing until nothing was ever enough anymore.

 

“Sweetheart,” Kyungsoo murmured; Jongin’s bottom lip was in between his. “My sweetheart.”

 

Jongin’s heart grew two sizes, almost tearing his torso apart with how painful it felt—to be called sweetheart so lovingly, when all he had ever known about himself was the red and the rosary and the realities of war time atrocities. To be Kyungsoo’s.

 

“Call me that again,” said Jongin.

 

“Sweetheart,” said Kyungsoo.

 

And then, “Call me darling, too. Call me yours, Jongin.” Kyungsoo gave a kiss, punctuating his request as if Jongin needed coaxing to say the nickname again. As if he was not ready to shout it on top of the roof, as loud as he could. He whispered, “My sweetheart Jongin. Please.”

 

Jongin returned it with a kiss first, a delicate brush, open. His tongue swiped Kyungsoo’s top lip and he muttered, on one end of the older man’s mouth, “My darling boy.”

 

Kyungsoo made a noise that was indecipherable to Jongin but it was no matter. The whole universe was theirs tonight as Jongin whispered again, “Kyungsoo—darling. My darling.” Kyungsoo’s eyes were glazed when Jongin stared into them and there was an encouraging smile on his face, small and beautiful, not like anything Jongin had seen.

 

Warmth flooded him from every corner until Jongin did not know where it had first hit, only knew that it was coming from the man underneath him—soft and gorgeous, fresh peals of laughter and sunlight beams. His lips travelled to the side of Kyungsoo’s neck and he defined the area where he had bitten before with soothing kisses and the slick of his tongue. The older man moaned just as his pelvis moved up, brushing against Jongin. He rubbed their clothed erections together, enjoying the friction and the feeling of their joined heat.

 

His mouth moved farther down and one of his hands went to the other male’s chest. His index finger circled a pink nipple, pressing down on the center with his blunt nail. Kyungsoo’s back arched and he whined, “Sen-sensitive. I’m—”

 

Jongin hushed him as he kissed, hot and wet, the skin of Kyungsoo’s chest, peppering it with the touch of his lips. “I know,” he said. “I’ll take good care of you.” He saw Kyungsoo nod and Jongin’s hands went to the bands of his trousers. He eyed Kyungsoo for any sign of protest but the elder just gave another nod and Jongin undid the ties before pulling it cleanly off of the man with his underwear.

 

Kyungsoo’s cock sprung free, bobbing, and Jongin licked his lips as he knelt down in between the man’s bent legs. He pulled the bottoms away, right leg first and then left, before he flung the garments to the side. He scooted backwards as he took in the sight of Kyungsoo—naked on top of the thin mattress.

 

The light from the gas lamp looked good against the pale skin—orange and dark shadows on the contours of his body. The man’s dick was half-hard and his eyes were looking straight at Jongin. He gulped when Kyungsoo’s right hand crawled on his skin, moving south.

 

“Hi,” Kyungsoo said with a burst of short laughter. Jongin returned it with his own but he continued to stare at the other, on his knees, in between the length of Kyungsoo’s legs. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

 

Kyungsoo’s hand was caressing his own skin, from the slight jut of his hip to the barely there V of his pelvis. Jongin continued to watch him as the older man looked on, amused and playing a beat on his own skin, not daring to touch his cock.

 

Jongin breathed out, “Wait here,” as he stood up. His knees were shaking badly and his legs were almost ready to collapse from his weight. He hurried to his bag on the corner of the room, taking two long strides, before rummaging and taking out a foil of condom and a small tub of lubricant.

 

When he went back to Kyungsoo, his heart jumped out of his chest when he saw the man playing with his cock. His hand was wrapped around the base as he pumped himself slowly. Beads of precome pooled on the head as Kyungsoo stroked himself dry. Jongin’s own erection was pressing insistently on the band of his pants, rock hard and painful.

 

He sank down on his knees in front of Kyungsoo again, setting down the lube and the condom near. Kyungsoo did not stop what he was doing but his pace slowed down even more. He barely made any noise and Jongin wondered how the other would sound like letting go, throat vibrating and neck tensing with the sounds of his desires and pleasures.

 

He unfastened the button of his pants with one hand, pulled the zipper low. His underwear was visible and the head of his cock was peeking out.

 

Raggedly, Jongin ordered, “That’s enough, Kyungsoo.”

 

The man ceased his movements and he threw Jongin a lazy grin, rising on one of his elbows so they could look at each other properly.

 

“What ever will you do to me?” Kyungsoo replied faux guilelessly.

 

Jongin smiled and he took one of Kyungsoo’s ankles, bringing it up. The other man made a surprised noise.

 

“Jo-Jongin?” Kyungsoo’s stare did not leave his so Jongin maintained the eye contact with the other man. He gave him a smile before he brought the leg up, kissing the skin above Kyungsoo’s ankle.

 

“Let me love you,” Jongin said, “the way you deserved to be. The way I wanted to love you.”

 

“How,” Kyungsoo exhaled a long breath. It sounded shallow. “How would you—Ah!” The words were stolen by the drawn out moan when Jongin bit the skin before he lapped the mark with his tongue. Everywhere else, Kyungsoo remained untouched.

 

“Like this,” Jongin answered the unfinished question. His mouth kissed upwards, on the side of Kyungsoo’s shin. His teeth would graze lightly and he could feel the man’s leg shuddering. He held the older male’s calf as he rose it higher, gaining access to kiss the bent of Kyungsoo’s knee.

 

“Like this,” he answered again as he scooted closer, spreading Kyungsoo’s legs wider. His hand went to the underside of the other’s knee, hitching it higher as he mouthed on the man’s thigh. Jongin’s kisses were hotter, open with nibbles here and there, interrupting the light pecks. He sucked hard on the skin of Kyungsoo’s inner thigh, enjoying the loud moan the man gave. Fingers found his hair as Kyungsoo combed through the tresses.

 

Jongin’s other hand found Kyungsoo’s free leg and he played around the unattended thigh, pushing the pads of his fingers and scraping the skin with his nails. Kyungsoo gave a slow shiver and his breathing was even more shallow this time. Both of Jongin’s hands were wrapped around the tops of Kyungsoo’s thighs, squeezing the flesh in alternating bouts of pressure.

 

Jongin leaned down and placed a kiss on the head of Kyungsoo’s cock.

 

The man gave a hoarse groan as his hips thrusted upwards. It slipped sideways and Jongin licked the come on his lip away as he felt the side of his cheek become sticky. He raised his index finger and swiped the stray precome before he hovered over Kyungsoo’s form, forefinger offered in front of the man’s mouth.

 

Kyungsoo gulped, throat bobbing, as he opened his lips slowly. Jongin pushed his forefinger inside the warm mouth and the older man’s tongue immediately went to work, licking away his own precome from the skin of Jongin’s finger. Kyungsoo enveloped the single digit as he ran his tongue on the side. Jongin moaned when Kyungsoo circled the finger with his tongue like he was sucking cock.

 

“God,” Jongin cursed. “You’re a fucking work of art, darling.”

 

Kyungsoo smiled around Jongin’s finger and he took the chance to slip another inside the man’s mouth. The other male readily accepted Jongin’s middle finger, tongue working around the length of the two digits and his cheeks hollowing out. Jongin was aware of the warmth of Kyungsoo’s mouth around his fingers as his heart thundered and blood rushed down to his hard member.

 

When he pulled out, Kyungsoo whined as if in complaint. Jongin leaned down— his own mouth against the other’s, taking the time to explore again. His wet fingers trailed on Kyungsoo’s own body, painting the man with spit. Jongin moaned into the kiss, separating the both of them when Kyungsoo curled his tongue around his like an expert.

 

His hand trailed low and he wrapped his fingers around Kyungsoo’s cock. His fingers around the base, giving it a tug.

 

“Finally,” Kyungsoo moaned. It sounded relieved. The exhale he released was long and his back arched with the length of it. Jongin grinned down as he assumed a kneeling position in between Kyungsoo’s legs. The man spread them some more as his hips bucked down and up, as if Kyungsoo himself did not know what he truly wanted.

 

“Kyungsoo,” Jongin cooed, letting go of Kyungsoo’s hard member after a sharp pull. He picked the jar of lube and untwisted the cap, setting it beside the man’s hip. He scooped a little lube on his fingers before he lathered it on the tops of Kyungsoo’s thigh, saying, “I’ll be so good to you.”

 

The cold must have startled the man because the “Shit!” he gave was high and sudden.

 

“I haven’t done anything worth cursing over, darling,” Jongin teased.

 

“Exactly,” Kyungsoo retorted, pelvis thrusting in the air helplessly. Jongin held Kyungsoo’s hip with the hand that was not wet with lube, pushing the man down on to the quilted mattress and rubbing circles on the bone of his hip.

 

Jongin’s fingers creeped on Kyungsoo’s ass, tracing the crack and pressing lightly on the older man’s entrance.

 

“Don’t tease,” Kyungsoo whined. He looked Jongin in the eye, said, “Sweetheart.”

 

Jongin gave a low chuckle as he slipped his index finger inside Kyungsoo. The man whined high and Jongin pushed on the hipbone harder so the male lying on the mattress was rendered helpless. The warmth around his index finger was suffocating, taking him in. Jongin curled the finger experimentally and Kyungsoo moaned, a high pitched sound that disturbed the stillness and made the air thicker than it already was.

 

“Let me hear you,” Jongin said as he pushed another finger inside. Kyungsoo obliged and the keening sound he made sent shivers down the length of Jongin’s spine. His cock was hard against the band of his underwear but tonight would be about Kyungsoo and Jongin would give it to him, give him everything and then some.

 

His other hand on Kyungsoo’s thigh massaged the flesh and Jongin took the chance to scissor his fingers that were inside Kyungsoo. The older male’s toes curled and his other leg bent high—the feeling was already too much.

 

“Okay?” Jongin asked, making sure. His fingers eased up in their movements but Kyungsoo pushed his hips lower, burying Jongin deeper.

 

“One more,” Kyungsoo breathed out. “I could take one more, Jongin. Fill me up, sweetheart. One more.”

 

Jongin felt warm at the words and he pulled his fingers off, dragging them slowly until they were completely out. He took the lubricant and he poured some more on his fingers, allowing it to drip on Kyungsoo’s skin. It was messy but neither of them cared as of the moment.

 

He pushed two of his fingers inside the other man again and he pumped them lazily before he gained pace. Kyungsoo was moving with him, ass clenching around the length of his digits.

 

“Look at you,” Jongin commented idly but there was a hitch in his voice that did not hide the lust he was feeling. “So eager for me.”

 

“I am,” Kyungsoo whined, moaned. “I-I’m so—one more finger, sweetheart. I can take it.”

 

Jongin smiled and scissored Kyungsoo’s entrance before pushing another finger. Kyungsoo screamed soundlessly when he was knuckle deep, eyes shut and mouth opened wide. Jongin began with gentler strokes, easing the older male to the new feeling. He pushed and pulled his fingers repeatedly, increasing the speed until Kyungsoo was a mess of incoherent sounds.

 

Both of them were breathing harsh and erratic as Jongin heard the ringing in his ears and the insistence of his own neglected cock. He continued to move his fingers around Kyungsoo’s hole, dragging on the walls and savoring the heat.

 

He pulled out when he felt like he would burst from the heaviness that clung to him. Jongin thought his vision was blurring.

 

“Why did you stop?” Kyungsoo asked, raising himself on one shaking elbow.

 

Jongin threw him a look as he pushed his pants and underwear down, maneuvering around so he could remove them completely—limbs bent so weirdly that he had made Kyungsoo giggle. He gave the man a playfully reproachful look as he pushed his clothes to the side of the mattress, haphazard and careless.

 

He groped around for the condom packet and, when he found it, he did not take any time in ripping the top off. He dropped the condom on his palm and he gave his dick a few tugs, not needing much from all the stimulation, before he rolled the condom down on his hard member.

 

Kyungsoo looked at him with a curious gaze and Jongin said, “Safety first.” The hint from Jongin was lost on the older male so Jongin hovered above him, pressing their erections together. He caught Kyungsoo’s lip and nibbled on it, teeth chafing on the thin skin. One of Jongin’s hands found Kyungsoo’s chest once more and he took one pebbled nipple in between his fingers, tugging on the nub and moving it around. He broke the kiss and he felt both their cocks heavy against each other. Jongin pushed and rubbed his hard member against Kyungsoo’s and the man moaned.

 

“W-weird,” he said.

 

“What is?” Jongin exhaled. He switched the nipple with the other and Kyungsoo’s back rose off of the floor mattress when his nail scratched the pink bud, giving it the same attention.

 

“Latex,” Kyungsoo replied but he still moved against Jongin’s cock, desperate for more contact.

 

Jongin positioned himself as he kissed Kyungsoo’s nose, hoping it was reassuring enough. Kyungsoo’s fingers were on Jongin’s cock, in an instant, fingering the edge of the condom as if it was a novelty. For the older male, it was, perhaps, one.

 

He let Kyungsoo explore his length, the older male traced the underside and Jongin had to warn him to be careful lest he cut the latex with his fingernail. Kyungsoo wrapped his fingers around Jongin’s hard member and he gave two strokes, slow and steady.

 

“Do you like it like this?” Jongin asked, trying hard to keep still.

 

“Like what?”

 

“Slow,” Jongin said.

 

Kyungsoo hummed as he thumbed the head of Jongin’s cock. “Yes,” he answered after a moment. “I’d like our first time to be slow.” His hands linked on Jongin’s nape and he brought the man down for another kiss. It felt like a stretch of infinity to Jongin, when he felt Kyungsoo pouring out himself into the lip lock. Jongin bumped their erections together as one of his hands held them both.

 

He broke the kiss off with a moan when he rubbed Kyungsoo’s hard on against his. The condom was not doing anything to lessen the pressure as he rutted against the older male, erratic and out of rhythm.

 

Kyungsoo held him on the nap and he brought Jongin down again for a peck. He said, “Make love to me, sweetheart. Take your time in loving me.”

 

The blood rushed to Jongin’s dick and he felt himself grow harder than what he had thought of as possible. The way Kyungsoo curled the endearment was teasing but it was the honesty and the genuine plea that urged Jongin on.

 

He gave the man a kiss and as he positioned himself. Jongin snatched the jar of lube, taking some out and coating the condom liberally. He traced Kyungsoo’s entrance with his finger, slipping two inside easily—one knuckle deep to the music of Kyungsoo’s low groan. He gripped the base of his cock and he pressed it against Kyungsoo’s puckered hole. He held down Kyungsoo’s hipbone, careful so the man would not move.

 

“Stay still,” Jongin said. “Relax.”

 

He pushed his cock inside Kyungsoo and he took his time—one painstaking millimeter after another. He watched Kyungsoo’s face carefully and it was twisted with a slight grimace. Jongin adjusted himself before he was fully in so that was hovering over the man properly. He placed a kiss on Kyungsoo’s forehead and his other hand went to push the man’s hair, running it between his fingers.

 

“Are you okay?” Jongin asked. He tried hard not to move even if Kyungsoo’s warmth was sucking him in, a tempting cavern of heat that he wanted to push into.

 

“Yeah,” Kyungsoo breathed out, opening his eyes slightly. “I’m fine just—this is new.”

 

Jongin kissed Kyungsoo’s forehead again, warned, “I’m going to move now, Kyungsoo.”

 

Kyungsoo seemingly preened under the pet name and Jongin smiled down, not even bothering to resist kissing the male. He held Kyungsoo’s thighs with both his hands, spreading them wider. He massaged the flesh as he inched deeper, burying himself to the hilt. His balls brushed Kyungsoo’s skin and he shuddered, keeping still.

 

“Let me,” Kyungsoo exhaled, “get used to it first.”

 

Jongin watched as Kyungsoo’s mouth uncurled by itself. It was a slow process but Jongin allowed the other man the luxury of time. With his eyes closed, Jongin felt Kyungsoo relax under him, slowly turning pliant. He rubbed circles on the man’s thighs, still gripping the flesh and pressing tender touches on each of them.

 

He moved his hands up, ghosting over Kyungsoo’s shivering form, before trailing it down. Jongin did not move, still. When Kyungsoo gave him a nod, he pulled out halfway as the older male squeaked.

 

Jongin rubbed circles on the older male’s skin and he said, “Open your eyes, Kyungsoo.” The man’s eyes shut tighter and Jongin smiled indulgently. He braced himself, kissing the corner of Kyungsoo’s mouth. He said lovingly, softly, “Look me in the eyes as I make love to you.” The circles turned larger, growing into alternated presses on the skin and flesh, digging into the bone. “I want to see your beautiful eyes, darling.”

 

Kyungsoo seemed hesitant at first, flaming red, but his eyelashes fluttered as his lids slowly uncovered his dilated pupils, dark and glazed with want.

 

“There you are,” Jongin whispered, kissing Kyungsoo again.

 

The older man smiled against his lips and Jongin took it as an opportunity to slam his hips back. Kyungsoo almost screamed but Jongin devoured the sound with his own mouth so that it turned into a moan. He started moving shallowly, thrusting into Kyungsoo’s welcoming heat. His hands found purchase on the plush thighs, holding them open. Jongin pushed in deeper and his hold slackened when the older man’s legs wrapped around his waist.

 

“ _Jongin. Jongin. Jongin_ ,” chanted Kyungsoo. He heard his own name spill all over the darkness and Jongin continued pounding into the smaller male, angling his pelvis up, just a bit. He slid over a bundle of nerves and Kyungsoo let out a hoarse scream that echoed throughout, thrown on the four walls of the bedroom.

 

“There,” the man panted, “right there. Do that again, Jongin. Sweethe—” The pet name was cut off with another moan, loud and clear, ringing true in the dead of the night.

 

Kyungsoo’s dick was trapped in between them as Jongin continued pushing himself into Kyungsoo. The older man’s hard-on was pressed against the hard planes of Jongin’s stomach, brushing on his abs for friction. Jongin let it hang between the two of them as Kyungsoo’s hands found his shoulders to grip.  Jongin let out a noise—half a moan and half a whine of pain—as nails embedded themselves on the skin stretched over his shoulder blades. Kyungsoo scraped them on his back, four lines  clawing the tanned area.

 

The balls of the other man’s feet dug into Jongin’s tailbone as he continued to thrust deeper. He found the pace he was looking for, playing around with the angle hitting Kyungsoo’s sensitive spot one time and then, not at all at the next.

 

“Jongin,” Kyungsoo whined. He was sweating hard and his eyes were unfocused. “Faster. Do that again. When you—”

 

“No,” he groaned in reply. “Tell me you’ll stay here with me.”

 

“Jongin,” Kyungsoo sobbed. “ _Do that again, please._ ”

 

Jongin pulled away, shallow, and he glided his hips so the bundle of nerves was hit, but barely. Kyungsoo whined and his fingers were sharp on Jongin’s back, drawing two pairs of quadruple lines—red and pink, deep.

 

“J-jongin, please,” the older man begged as he snapped his own hips down, trying to recreate the angle that Jongin had used to give excessive pleasure.

 

“Lie to me,” Jongin thrusted again, not hitting the man’s spot. “Say you won’t leave me tonight.”

 

He continued moving his hips and Kyungsoo’s arousal was heavy between them. He gripped the shorter male securely, his fingers digging into the soft flush of his thighs and moving upwards on either side of the man’s hips.

 

“Don’t go,” he said. “Lie to me, darling. Tell me you won’t go and leave me.”

 

“I won’t,” Kyungsoo cried out as he thrashed his hips and clenched his hole around Jongin’s hard member. Jongin moaned as Kyungsoo said, “I won’t leave you, Jongin. I’ll stay here with you, sweetheart. Come on. Do that ag—”

 

Jongin pulled almost all the way out, keeping the tip inside Kyungsoo’s hole, before he slammed his dick hard at an angle. Kyungsoo screamed and it sounded scratchy to his ears.

 

“Like that?” He growled. Jongin bit Kyungsoo’s collarbone, careful that it would be hidden under the hanbok, knowing they had already been careless enough.

 

“Yes,” Kyungsoo moaned. “Like that. Like— _l-like that_.”

 

“Say it again,” Jongin said, ramming his hips forward that Kyungsoo’s entire body was moving with him. “Say you won’t leave me again.”

 

“I won’t leave you, Jongin,” Kyungsoo dutifully repeated.

 

“Again,” Jongin grunted.

 

The older man blubbered, “ _I won’t leave you. I won’t leave you. I won’t. I won’t._ ”

 

Tears slipped out of Kyungsoo’s eyes as Jongin continued to hit his sweet spot, the angles of his thrusts were the same. He varied the length of his strokes until the older man was a shivering mess of sweat and tears, precome in between them and the smell of their lust was heady in the confined space.

 

The older man’s heels dug deeper into Jongin’s back and he took it as a sign to continue with his fast pace. He picked up the speed, thrusting fast and shallow. He was barely pulling out before he was thrusting again. His balls brushed the skin of Kyungsoo’s ass and the slap of skin was loud in the silence with their moans and the guttural sounds low on their throats.

 

The pressure built up in Jongin’s stomach and he warned, “I’m close. I’m going to come.”

 

Kyungsoo whined at that and he took his ignored cock in between their moving bodies. His hand moved in time with Jongin’s hip and the his thumb dug on the slit to spread the beads of pre-come all over the skin. The older male was sweating more as his eyes looked upwards, to the ceiling. Jongin could see the man’s eyes turning hooded as the pace of his hand turned erratic around his hard member.

 

Jongin continued his movements and he felt his dick being squeezed when Kyungsoo clenched the muscle around him. He gave a low groan and he slapped the side of Kyungsoo’s thigh, enjoying the way it jiggled underneath his palm.

 

“So hot,” he grunted as he rubbed his palm flat on the surface. “So beautiful, darling.”

 

Jongin rammed inside Kyungsoo and his movements lost its pattern as he pulled and pushed the length of his cock inside. The older man had his mouth open and his lips were shiny with spit as he tugged at his own hard on. Kyungsoo was pushing his hips down to meet Jongin’s every thrust.

 

“I’m close too,” Kyungsoo mumbled. His hand was moving lazily now and the strokes were all over the place, seemingly without tempo. “I-I want to come.” The older man moaned and Jongin grinned down, slowing his pace to kiss Kyungsoo square on the mouth. His fingers hovered on the shorter male’s dick, brushing the slit.

 

Kyungsoo finished like that—a wordless scream that begun with a hoarse cry. He came in thick spurts, murmuring, “ _Jongin. Jongin. Jongin. My sweetheart._ ” His come was on his stomach, painting lines of pearly white on his torso. Some of it was on Jongin’s too but he did not pay it any mind as Kyungsoo panted underneath him, pink in the face with a small smile, looking out of his mind.

 

He continued thrusting shallowly, chasing his own orgasm. Kyungsoo clenched himself once more and Jongin let go off the pressure that was building up inside him with a loud, “Kyungsoo!” His vision blanked and he could hear white noise inside his head as he moved in a sedate pace, enjoying the warmth as he spilled himself inside the condom.

 

Jongin slumped down on top of Kyungsoo, their bodies both sticky with sweat and their own release.  He pulled his softening cock out of the male’s entrance and the slick of the lube he had liberally poured over them made it an easy and messy drag. He took the condom off swiftly, tying the latex and dumping it to the side.

 

Kyungsoo made a noise of complaint and Jongin dragged his uncoordinated limb so he could ruffle Kyungsoo’s hair. He pressed a chaste kiss on the corner of the older man’s mouth before Kyungsoo ran after him, locking their lips in a soft embrace and moving against each other.

 

It was languid and Jongin found himself enjoying the intimacy of the kiss. Their members were limp against their thighs but the lust had quickly dissipated into the quietness of affection and something more. Their fingers were brushing away the dampness on their eyes without comments, feeling no need to speak.

 

Words were not needed, not this time.

 

Jongin rolled over to break the kiss as he laid on his side. He scooped Kyungsoo up so they were pressed together again. The other man’s head was pillowed on Jongin’s arm as he kissed Kyungsoo like he missed him. Their tongues were licking the insides of each other’s mouth and none of it was rushed—the satisfaction was within waiting and the remnants of adrenaline.

 

Kyungsoo smiled into the kiss and Jongin felt himself return it too. When they separated, the grins on their faces were bright, glowing like their mouths were filled with fireflies. Jongin’s heart was beating fast in his chest and he took one of Kyungsoo’s hand, pressing it above above his abdomen, in the middle.

 

The older male stilled and Jongin did too. His heart was thundering and he was red in the face, flushed at how bare he was in front of the man. It was a different kind of being naked, having Kyungsoo feel every thud, the emotions that Jongin felt for him—the sheer intensity of it was scary.

 

“Your heart was beating fast,” said Kyungsoo.

 

“You made it that way,” said Jongin.

 

Kyungsoo smiled at him tenderly and he took Jongin’s hand, kissing the knuckles. Jongin felt the man take his hand and drag it down, on the column of his neck and Jongin’s fingers roamed on the marks he had left there, enjoying the sight of the mottled colors—reds and purples, the hints of fading pink and there were some that, in a span of a few minutes, already yellowing, not even blossoming into full bruises.

 

When he pressed Jongin’s open palm on where Kyungsoo’s heart was supposed to be, Jongin felt explosions underneath his skin. Inside the older man’s chest, there was a waging war—thunderstorms in the skies, earthquakes, tidal waves, calamities, and pandemonium. Underneath his palm, Kyungsoo’s heart—

 

“It was fast, too,” he whispered, shocked. He looked at Kyungsoo in the eye and he found the man’s gaze trained on him, so soft and sweet that Jongin felt like a new man, a different man. Kyungsoo did this to him. Kyungsoo had repeatedly done this to him. His fingers began to tremble and the other male did not comment. Instead, he held Jongin’s hand close to his chest and he could feel every echo, every movement, every shift.

 

“Kyungsoo,” Jongin said, falling apart.

 

“You made it that way too.” Kyungsoo leaned in and kissed Jongin on the lips, short and innocent. Their hands were trapped in between their bodies as the both of them pressed against the other, closer and closer.

 

It was uncomfortable—their position and the sweat and the drying come on their skin—but Jongin relished Kyungsoo’s lips like it was their first kiss again. Like it was his first kiss ever. He felt like he was back to his schoolboy days, stupid and young and reckless.

 

Alive.

 

He could feel Kyungsoo’s heart running and racing after his own as the two of them separated after the lip lock. The older man had a smile on his face and Jongin felt helpless. The words on the tip of his tongue were threatening to bleed out but he stopped himself, biting his inner cheek.

 

Instead, Jongin leaned his forehead against Kyungsoo’s and their breaths mingled with each other as one. He stared at the older man as he was stared back too. Kyungsoo was blinking slowly, dragging every moment when he had his eyes moment to last longer than it should have. Jongin did the same, not wanting to miss Kyungsoo when he blinked—a jiffy too long and too unbearable.

 

“I—” Jongin said before he stopped himself. He took a large gulp of air as Kyungsoo waited for him. The same smile was playing on the older male’s lips. He steeled himself and tried again, the words stuck in his throat for a second before he tamped the anxiety away, shot it straight to the head with his Nagant. “Kyungsoo, I—“

 

“Me what?” Kyungsoo asked gently. His finger started drawing on Jongin’s chest, little circles morphing into characters that Jongin could not make out of what with the thrumming in his veins and the insistence crawling underneath his skin.

 

“I,” Jongin took a deep breath, trying to find the words for something that was indescribable. “There’s nothing in this world—absolutely nothing—that I want more than you being safe. Seeing you through the end, whole.”

 

Kyungsoo sighed and Jongin thought the other would be mad but, instead, his mouth twisted into a half-smile—resigned and wry. “I want the same for you.” A pause before, “There is no end, is there not?”

 

Jongin felt like he should lie the way his mother did—tell Kyungsoo there was an end. That something was waiting for the both of them. But this was Kyungsoo so he said, “There isn’t one, darling, unless we’re both dead.”

 

Kyungsoo bit his lip and he hesitated, looking like he was trying to weigh his words carefully. “If I leave—” Jongin gasped, a sharp whistle of air. “—you will die, right? They’ll find me gone and question you and they’ll think you’re a stupid man for letting the farmer leave. They will kill you, will they not?”

 

Jongin took a deep breath as another wave of honesty overcame him. “They will.” He sighed. “Most likely.”

 

“And if I leave,” Kyungsoo’s  voice was small, “I will die?”

 

“Yes,” Jongin answered simply. There was no roundabout way to reply without lying, without the unnecessary sugar on the word.

 

Kyungsoo gave a shuddering breath and everything seemed to collapse that second.

 

The older man confessed, “I don’t want you to die, Jongin.”

 

The sob that was torn from his throat was heartbreaking and Jongin gathered Kyungsoo in his arms as tears prickled on the back of his eyelids. Kyungsoo was so strong, stronger than him even, but there were limits to a person’s strength.

 

“I don’t want to die,” the older man added. As if saying it twice would make it come true. Kyungsoo’s lips were against his neck and the older man was mouthing his own wishes, his personal prayers, onto the tanned skinned—against the sweat and the kiss marks, signs of sin and ownership.

 

Kyungsoo said, “I just met you. I just held you and kissed you. We  just made love for the first time. I don’t want this to be the last—”

 

With a broken sob that echoed in Jongin’s heart, rendering him feeling pity for himself and the both of them, he listened as Kyungsoo cried, “I just got you. I want to spend more time with you, Jongin— _I just got you_.”

 

Jongin’s heart shattered at the quiet admission, the blame underneath the words—towards the war, towards their country, towards the cruel fate that had dealt the both of them cards that were barely winning hands.

 

“We’d make the most out of it,” Jongin said. “I just got you too, Kyungsoo. I’ll never let you go, my darling. I’ll always be where you are.”

 

Kyungsoo shrunk deeper into his embrace at that and Jongin kissed the top of the man’s head, as he cradled the both of them close—unmindful of their post-coital state. He ran his fingers on the man’s hair, trying to give the most comfort. Kyungsoo’s fingers were on his back, digging and massaging the knots out.

 

“Please,” Kyungsoo whispered. “You have to meet me wherever I am.”

 

“I will,” Jongin promised. He tipped Kyungsoo’s head upwards and he kissed him on the mouth again. The warmth was familiar and it coursed through Jongin—outside, inside, every cranny and crack being filled. “I’ll meet you in heaven or in hell, Kyungsoo.”

 

“I’ll do the same for you. I’ll find you and I’ll wait for you. You’re worth all the time in the world, Jongin, and then some,” Kyungsoo returned.

 

It sounded like vows to Jongin—the most intimate kind, the ones exchanged in halls with high ceilings and in front of congregations, not inside shabby bedrooms, lying on the floor naked with dried come on their stomachs.

 

It sounded perfect, to him.

 

“You gave me summer in the middle of a cold war,” Jongin kissed Kyungsoo again, “until you stole all the warmth and became summer itself.”

  


* * *

 

  


**_June 24, 1950_ **

 

At half past five in the morning, Jongin woke up with Kyungsoo inside the cradle of his arms. The both of them were dressed sloppily, smelling of last night’s rendezvous. The early chill rose gooseflesh on their skin and Jongin ran the palm of his hand down the older man’s arm to curb the shiver crawling underneath.

 

He kissed Kyungsoo’s temple and whispered, “I’m sorry, darling,” before he stood up, heading to his bag placed in one corner of the room.

 

He picked up fresh clothes and, for the first time in months, he grabbed his combat regalia from where it was lying on the floor. Jongin had wished right then and there that time had been kinder—that he did not have to pick the pressed garments this soon wherein the minutes he would spend with Kyungsoo were not the idle days of countryside habit but the billowing smoke of after dark explosions that smelled like sulfur and iron.

 

In the bathroom, when he slid the lock into place and he hurriedly cleaned himself, the water was icy on his skin but nothing was colder than the tundras forming inside the recesses of his stomach and making the blood in his veins frozen.

 

Jongin quickly toweled himself down when his thoughts had started becoming intrusive as he slipped the wooden rosary over his head and he dressed in his uniform. The navy blue was almost black from the lack of lighting and the clothes still fit him perfectly. He put the holster belt around his waist and the emptiness of it was jarring.

 

It was a reminder—that no matter how many times he had traded these trousers for softer working pants and the metal buttons of his top in favor of thin shirts, Jongin was and would always be Senior Lieutenant Kim of the 105th, North Korean People’s Army.

 

By the time he was done dressing for the early day, there were slow filters of light passing through the fading imprints of palms and fingers, broken by the lengths and widths of thin iron bars. Outside, Jongin knew that dawn looked like early twilight.

 

He slipped inside the bedroom carefully, just in time to find Kyungsoo stirring from his slumber. The hanbok he had hastily put on last night when their murmurs turned into sweet nonsense and their lips had latched on to each other like lazy afterthoughts showed bare skin. Jongin’s marks were left on the expanse of flesh, red and pink and purple. The large bite mark was visible and it sent heat towards Jongin’s belly, quiet and unobtrusive.

 

“Good morning, Jongin,” Kyungsoo mumbled. He yawned and stretched his limbs and Jongin envied the man’s slow disposition upon waking up.

 

“Good morning,” he returned warmly. The older male had yet to properly open his eyes and he had yet to see Jongin dressed like this again—like the first time, when they came to the village in opened jeeps with loaded rifles and hand guns.

 

Kyungsoo’s eyelashes fluttered and the light of the lamp glowed and casted shadows on the other man’s cheeks. Jongin stood there, watching Kyungsoo, like he was in front of the firing squad. Still and barely breathing.

 

The male’s lids opened in slow increments and he had to blink the sleepiness away. Jongin had yet to move. Kyungsoo yawned once more and, from underneath the short blankets, small toes poked out and wiggled. Jongin’s heart beat inside his chest.

 

Like this, he could forget he was wearing the navy of his military uniform.

 

When Kyungsoo came to, his eyes were fast to seek Jongin. They ran over his form—the length of his legs and the breadth of his shoulders—and the metal decorations and embellishments felt like they were heating up, burning through the fabric as Jongin allowed the scrutiny.

 

“Oh,” Kyungsoo said. “It’s today.”

 

Jongin gave a nod and a reluctant smile. “Yes, it is.” He inclined his head down and their eyes met. “Did you forget about it?”

 

Kyungsoo's face was horribly pale as if the remembrance was too much. Jongin could sympathize with him except—not really. The indifference was slow but it was slowly settling in his bones and joints. The only fear he was feeling was attached to the man sitting on the mattress on the floor, hair mussed with sleep and lips swollen.

 

“I almost did,” he whispered. His fingers were shaking slightly, Jongin noticed. After a second, the older man pointed out, “You did not.”

 

Jongin shrugged because there was nothing he could answer to that. He was not in the habit of forgetting military logistics. There was Kim Jongin and there was the Senior Lieutenant. This was no different from other operations he had carried before. Red on his kill count, another tally.

 

He looked at Kyungsoo still sitting on the floor, shoulders slumped and looking defeated. From where he was six feet up, the other man seemed so small. Jongin wondered how he could lift a gun with those small hands of his when, just last night, they had barely held Jongin in his entirety.

 

Jongin crouched on the floor and he pulled the revolver underneath one of the pillows The coldness of it was reassuring. Kyungsoo’s stare followed his every move as he slung the gun into the holster, clipping it in place.

 

He bent down once more and kissed Kyungsoo’s forehead. Before he pulled away from the moment of contact, Kyungsoo had wrapped his arms around his neck and had moved their heads at an angle to link their lips. The kiss was close mouthed and quick, at first, but Jongin gave chase and prodded deeper, opening his mouth in an invitation. Kyungsoo did not hesitate as he licked the inside of Jongin’s mouth, their tongues tangling with each other.

 

The position was getting uncomfortable for Jongin as his back protested from the strain. His hands went under Kyungsoo’s arms as he hauled the other man up, not breaking the kiss. He leaned his head lower as Kyungsoo met him half way, enjoying the hands running on his own clothed figure.

 

Kyungsoo broke the kiss with a pant and he looked up at Jongin with a smile. Jongin returned it with the same quality and the older male surged upwards again. Lips found Jongin’s and this one was a little slower than the previous one that they had shared. It felt like it could last hours—days—until they had exhausted the remaining years of their lives just kissing each other.

 

Jongin’s hands were wrapped around Kyungsoo’s waist and the fingers that were resting on his nape played with the tendrils of hair there. Kyungsoo pulled on the strands with vigor and the small sensation of pain made Jongin moan low in his throat. The older male smiled into the kiss and his fingers trailed lower, ghosting over the skin showing above the high collar of Jongin’s military uniform.

 

When they separated, Jongin’s face felt like it was warm with the fresh sunshine of summer days. Kyungsoo’s round cheeks were flushed red and the tips of his ears were beginning to warm up with the color too. His eyes were glassy and they were staring the directly at Jongin.

 

“That might be the last time,” Kyungsoo said.

 

Jongin nodded, “I know.” The shorter male was looking up at him and he gave in, pecking the lips playfully. It was morbid, in a way, because death was looming less than one hundred miles from where they were and yet, all Jongin could do was reduce the inches between their lips. He added, “I have to go.”

 

Kyungsoo’s mouth formed a moue, half whining, “Already so soon?”

 

He gave a grim smile, “Rendezvous in 15 minutes.”

 

The older man’s eyes drooped as he looked downwards before he raised his chin and gave Jongin a haughty air. It was startling—the change of attitude was close to giving him whiplash.

 

Kyungsoo looked so brave that Jongin’s heart stuttered. He was reminded, yet again, about the many things that made up the other man as a person and how there were layers to who he was, as well as dimensions. Kyungsoo was not a paper entity.

 

Steadily, the older man asked, “Are we going to be strangers?” There was a bitter twist to his lips. Jongin likes them much better when they were on him. The other male looked like he was waiting for Jongin to draw the revolver slung on his person, and click the lock off.

 

“Do you want us to be?” Jongin returned with a question.

 

Invisible fire crackled between the two of them. The tension was suffocating Jongin and he raised his hand to his neck, fingering the high collar of his military uniform. Kyungsoo did not miss the gesture as his eyes followed the movement, lingering on the way Jongin had pulled the garment away from his throat.

 

With bare honesty in his tone, Kyungsoo answered, “I don’t know what I want.”

 

Jongin gave the man a lopsided smile because that was such a _him_ response. The warmth that Kyungsoo had given him had yet to leave him, already having settled inside the hollow of his bones and underneath his nail beds, seeping into the skin and flowing through his veins. It melted the ice, at the very least.

 

He took a step forward. Kyungsoo stayed where he was, unflinching.

 

The tips of their toes kissed as Jongin bent low. His upper back was curved downwards, protective of the man in front of him.

 

Deep inside him, slowly coming into fruition, he knew: _anyone but Kyungsoo_.

 

He gave the other a smile, small but no less genuine. Kyungsoo was blinking at him lazily as Jongin’s right hand lifted to fit Kyungsoo’s cheek into the cup of it. Kyungsoo sought his warmth, leaning into the touch. He added—and this one, sounded more like he was reassuring himself than the elder, “I’d have you in my unit. I have empty spaces to fill. Civilian draftees will be given basic training, Kyungsoo. You’re not going into war without knowing anything. I promise that, at least.”

 

Kyungsoo closed his eyes and Jongin rubbed his thumb on the high point of the man’s cheekbones. He drew gentle circles, filling the skin with repeated movements. The pads of his fingers were rough—scarred to hell and back, calloused from the years spent in front lines—but the other man did not seem to mind.

 

“I will have to kill men,” Kyungsoo said.

 

“They will kill you first if you do not,” Jongin retorted.

 

Kyungsoo released a sigh that was part resignation and part something else that Jongin was not sure of. It was, perhaps, something that was unfamiliar to him. Kyungsoo held the back of his hand lightly, the one that was pressing onto his cheek before he pulled it away. Jongin was about to withdraw his arm but the older man had, instead, linked their fingers together.

 

“Everyone could know how to shoot a gun when given the desperate chance or the right moment,” Kyungsoo repeated, quoted the past him.

 

A flood of memories rushed towards Jongin like a large wave. The dawn felt more like nighttime with how intimate they were. Jongin had learned this the hard way, the pleasurable way, that closeness between the two of them—Kyungsoo and him, something he had no name as of yet—was not only defined by the boundaries of their nakedness. That being bare in front of another person was not reduced to sizzling contact of skin to skin.

 

At that moment, when the thoughts of the day from a past that had already seemed so far away, Jongin knew what Kyungsoo had meant— _when given the desperate chance or the right moment_. He replied, “You would have to kill to keep yourself alive. Can you do that, Kyungsoo?” There was vulnerability in his voice and the plea was caught between the syllables, erupting with the punctuation of the question.

 

There was a visible moment when Kyungsoo hesitated. Jongin noticed the tick in the man’s jawline and the way one of his cheeks was sucked in slightly, probably being bitten from the inside.

 

“I do not have a choice, do I?”

 

“One always has a choice,” Jongin blurted out before he could stop himself. And then, “But the options where you have to choose from or the consequences that come with them—those are what we don’t like to the point that we feel like we are making the decision point blank.”

 

Kyungsoo nodded his head minutely and his lips were now turned downwards. Jongin squeezed the male’s hand, the spaces between their fingers were stretched to accommodate each other.

 

There was silence and it felt like a vacuum. Or the universe when it was late at night.

 

It was almost morning.

 

Jongin said, “I will protect you as much as I can.”

 

“Don’t promise me anything,” Kyungsoo replied with a sigh but when Jongin’s thumb brushed on his pulse, it was fast. He smiled down and Kyungsoo looked up at him. He said, “I will protect you too. As much as I can.”

 

Jongin would have huffed out a short chuckle, or a derisive snort, except Kyungsoo looked at him so sincerely that he believed him despite his words and the fact that, before this, Kyungsoo had never even fired a gun and threw a grenade behind enemy lines. It was the thought that mattered, Jongin justified. And perhaps, the shared sentiment. The understanding.

 

Another lull passed between them and Jongin enjoyed these little breaks that they could have—even if it was seconds, sometimes minutes. These moments felt like there was no war and the only thing in existence was the two of them, orbiting around the stillness of the galaxy like dying stars. Like this, the two of them were lying to the world outside.

 

Jongin smiled to himself as he started playing with the skin of Kyungsoo’s hands. In a few weeks, it would have callouses not from working in the rice paddies but from the friction of gunmetal.

 

Kyungsoo was the first to break the quiet of the air with a question.

 

“What if I can’t recognize you anymore, Jongin?” He sounded so small and tired and Jongin leaned in to give him a sweet kiss. He made it last, a second and then two until he had counted ten beats of his thundering heart from where he was hearing it in his ears.

 

He wanted to be dishonest—he dearly wanted—but this was Kyungsoo and he had told himself that he wanted to be truthful to this man, even if, sometimes, it was painful.

 

“Then that’s when we become strangers,” he answered.

  



	6. tail end of june

Jongin assembled his men at daybreak—a skeleton troop in a skeleton village in the outskirts of Haeju. Border patrol was down by a few miles, and the base was way up by around fifty. All of them were dressed impeccably, uniforms put on properly with combed hair and washed faces. Fresh eyes were staring at him with excitement and these—these were the men that Jongin pitied.

 

For them, war was a playground and not a battlefield. Lives were chess pieces and disposable game players. These were the men that had not seen death—arrogant and excited, ready to pull the trigger for the power trip and the adrenaline.

 

Beside him, Sehun was standing straight and everything seemed quiet except for the steady noise of the cicadas. The buzzing was high in his ear but no one had seemed to mind. The older ones in his platoon, those who had served somewhere else or had been part of the less privileged class who were not afforded the protection of dirty money, looked vaguely sick. Jongin, in camaraderie, mentally clinked a glass of cheap beer or rice wine dug from the darkest storage rooms owned by the richer families, or the dead ones.

 

“Secure the village perimeter as much as you can,” he directed. His hands were behind his back, clasped and standing relaxed. His posture did not betray his authority—something that was born from his experience and boyhood fool-headedness, trying to become a man at nineteen years old and lanky. “Take two fire teams to the entrance of the village in a military jeep. One to the health center, one around the school building, and three around the markets. If anyone attemptes escape, negotiate. If they insist, use threats and force. If they manage to slip past you, then, let the bullets outside judge their lives.” 

 

Jongin watched as stone faces nod and there were two or three that looked somewhat sick. To that, he raised an imaginary glass of alcohol again. 

 

“Sehun and I will deal with the village chief and his family,” Jongin added. The grim faces did not react but he could see some of the fingers of his men twitching around their hand guns. Someone in the back was swinging the vehicle keys. In a few hours, either Major Gwak or another senior lieutenant would come with the reinforcements—even if, there really was nothing to be reinforced. The village was as good as dead, all closed mouths in front of cold muzzles that, with a wrong move, could turn warm in an instant.

 

When everyone was combat ready and guns were loaded, Jongin dismissed his platoon with a word. He was returned with synchronized salutes as heavy shoes trundled on the beaten ground, steps sure and confident. He gave Sehun a nod and the younger man was quick to clamber onto the driver’s seat of the remaining jeep. Jongin assumed his position beside his second-in-command, holding onto the side safely. His nails scraped uselessly against the metal plates of the moving vehicle.

 

The summer solstice stole the darkness in quick strokes of painted light as they moved towards the large house where the village chief and his two daughters resided. Jongin’s revolver was on his hip but there was a semi-automatic in the back, two firearms, one for him and the other was for Sehun. There was a small wooden crate of ammunition that, a few weeks ago, Jongin had been counting inventory for. Now, bullet shells would rain with the dark red of blood, splattering across the dry soil.

 

In a few minutes, the tiered roof of the village chief’s house was in their vicinity. Sehun neither hurried nor slowed down. He kept his pace as he maneuvered around the terrain of the village, steady as a ticking clock.

 

When the jeep gave a particular rumble, Sehun said, “It will be easy to get the chief to cooperate.”

 

Jongin turned to the man and there was an unpleasant twist to his thin mouth. His knuckles were white from how tight he was gripping the large steering wheel. He made a turn, slowing down first, ever so careful like how Lieutenant Oh had been trained, before realization dawned on Jongin like a capital punishment, or an ultimatum. Or Kyungsoo, that one time when he had been trying to curb what he had felt because it was everything against the things he had believed in.

 

He said, voice horrible and scratchy, rasping the words softly but audible—as if lowered voices would make it less real, “Chief Jung has two unmarried daughters.”

 

Sehun nodded before he started decelerating. The wheels of the vehicle dragged along the pebbled roads as the house loomed over the horizon. The courtyard that had seemed so small when they had first been invited for a lunch with some of the villagers felt like it was a stretch of infinity when it was this empty. The cicadas buzzed and the roosters screeched. 

 

“They don’t need to be unmarried,” Sehun threw back softly. He shifted the jeep as he pulled the steering wheel towards himself, parking. Jongin wanted to laugh. Here his second-in-command was—about to threaten a man with the safety of his family, and still observing proper driving etiquette. The younger soldier added, when the car had stopped, “They only need to be women.”

 

Weight settled deep in his gut and dread reeved through him as the words were met with the silence of the early morning. Sehun got down from the jeep and his feet made a scrunching sound against the cracked soil. The chill had been slowly dissipating as the sun started beating down the beginning rays of the morning.

 

Jongin hopped down and made his way to the back of the jeep. He took one of the long firearms from where it was lying carelessly. He slung a two packs of bullets—one for the cartridge of his revolver and the other was for the rifle that he had in his right hand.

 

He gave Sehun a nod before they marched towards the front door. Head held high like a welcoming committee except less amicable—and armed. Jongin gave the younger soldier the pleasure to rap his knuckles against the wood and he noted that it was solid. The door was heavy and he knew that, if the village chief did not open the door, it would take one entire cylinder of his gun and then some to pry it open with force. Maybe even with particularly hard rams of steel or concrete.

 

Sehun knocked thrice, proper, before he started pounding his fists on the wood. His face remained expressionless throughout the whole ordeal as Jongin stood on his side. His rifle was pressed close to his thigh and he unclipped the leather band keeping the Nagant in place before he clipped it again. Just making sure it would be easy to draw if the village chief ran or if he managed to pull out a weapon.

 

The door swung with a disgruntled, “What?”

 

Chief Jung was disheveled, still wearing the clothes he had gone to sleep in. Jongin figured men like him had the luxury to wake up late in the morning when everyone had already gone to the fields or had started preparing their breakfast.

 

“Chief Jung—” Jongin began. His gun gleamed from the minimal sunlight filtering from the clouds overhead. The older man looked perplexed as he blinked away the remnants of sleep from his eyes. “—the village is now under the North Korean People’s Army. If you don’t comply, we are at liberty to shoot.” He paused and Jung’s eyes were slowly widening. Inside, Jongin could hear rustling. “We’re at liberty to kill, too, sir, if that’s what it takes.”

 

The man trembled under Jongin’s words and there was less than a minute of silence when he looked like he had no idea what to do. Jung looked like he was caught unawares before his gaze sharpened into a glare.

 

“Why are you doing this, Senior Lieutenant Kim?” His voice was hard, steely and cold. “Why are you here this early in the morning? We haven’t had breakfast yet.”

 

Jung’s words were careless, thoughtless, and Jongin did not know why but his blood boiled when he heard of what the older man had said. He retorted, calmly and monotonous, “It’s because the people in the village work for you, Chief, that you don’t have to rise early.”

 

The man’s face paled and Jongin would give it to him—Jung was either stupid or suicidal. He stilled his jaw and raised his chin, eyebrow slightly curved upwards in a manner that looked at them—Sehun and him—as subhumans and beneath the dirt of his feet. Jongin wondered where the man who had told him when they had first met that he would do whatever for the sake of his village had gone.

 

“Well, clearly, you do, Senior Lieutenant Kim and Lieutenant Oh,” Jung made a snide comment. His eyes flitted to gun on their persons, back and forth, just for a split second. It was enough for Jongin to know that there was still the telltale signs of underlying fear within the man that he was talking to.

 

Before he could answer back, Jongin’s ears perked up when he heard some rustling inside. Jungs face had drained of its healthy color as he turned pale as a sheet. Behind him, light footsteps padded on the barefoot floor.

 

“Father,” a groggy voice called out. “Who’s at the door?”

 

“S-Soonyoung,” Jung stuttered. “Go back to your room and don’t get out.”

 

Jongin watched as Soonyoung yawned, wrapped in a robe and face puffy from sleep. She gasped when she saw Jongin and Sehun and her hands immediately went to cover her face that was flaming red. When she peeked her round eyes in between the gaps of her fingers, her stare ran into Jongin’s upright figure. He knew what she was seeing—her father, pale faced, and two soldiers on his door carrying two guns each. The hands that were covering her face went to cover only her mouth as she muffled a gasp into her knuckles.

 

“Soonyoung,” Jung repeated—harder this time. Authoritative. “Go back in your room. Now.”

 

The young woman scurried and she almost tripped on her feet as she hurried back inside her bedroom. There was a quick slam of a wooden door, probably one of the edging slats hitting the wall when it was slid with force, and the sound of something toppling over alongside an aborted scream.

 

When it had turned quiet, all the bravery in Jung’s face had gone away, melting into fear and darting eyes. His neck was craning in the direction his daughter’s bedroom and his stubby fingers were gripping the edge of his sleep shirt. He was clenching his jaw and it looked like he was trying hard to stop his teeth from clattering. 

 

“Will you,” Jongin asked, “cooperate?”

 

There really was no answer to that. Jung had another choice but Jongin was sure he did not like its consequences. The nod of his head was imperceptible before he looked down at the floor, at his toes. His shoulders were shaking and he wondered if the older man would cry, break down and spill himself all over the floor like old pillow stuffing. 

 

Perhaps it was anger—burning and all consuming. Jongin was grateful that he was a light sleeper and, in times of war, he barely had his eyes closed fully, always breathing in the air, ears peeled for any shift in vibrations.

 

The Nagant remained in the holster.

 

Jongin wondered what Kyungsoo would think of him now, when he saw what he had made the man in front of him do—what he had made him think would happen.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The apocalypse came in systematic bouts—lines of soldiers, counting up to hundreds, armored vehicles and opened jeeps, supplies of armaments. They stormed the village with purpose. Heavy wheels pounded on the solid ground as the villagers hid inside their homes, peeking out of their windows. Jongin watched as lines of children went home from school, their classes cancelled.

 

Chief Jung was in the hall, shivering as he sat on the wooden bench inside the sitting room. Jongin stood behind him, a silent presence as they await what was about to happen. It was a lot like watching fireworks in the sky, or the large explosions created by land mines planted in the ground, unsuspecting and waiting.

 

When Sehun opened the door from the outside, Major Gwak stepped in, followed by two soldiers flanking both his sides. The man was gazing down at the village chief who was glaring up, eyes defiant and lips in a half snarl. 

 

There was mischief in Gwak’s stare when he said, “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Major Gwak of the 105th, North Korean People’s Army.”

 

“I did not ask,” Jung snapped before spitting on the ground. It barely missed Gwak’s polished right boot and the major glanced downwards before his face settled impassively on the village chief’s. His eyes traveled to Jongin’s and, instantly, he knew what he had to do.

 

Jung shifted his eyes, cold and implacable, to the seated form of Chief Jung as Jongin moved from where he was standing behind the old man. Without preamble, he slapped the back of his hand to Jung’s left cheek, causing the man’s neck to pop sideways. The sound was audible all over the room and Jung made a whizzing sound.

 

Jongin thought:  _ this man saved Kyungsoo _ . 

 

The back of his hand hurt as he moved to the side. Jung’s cheek was flaming red from the force of his slap and he had yet to straighten his neck. Jongin felt antsy under his skin despite the years he had spent inside the constabulary—all the special lessons for special students like him. How to make a man obey. How to make a man speak. How to make a man into a puppet. How to break a man. How to turn a man into a shell of a person and reduce him into a machine.

 

“Look at me,” Gwak ordered. Jung did not move his head as it lolled to the side, limp. Jongin could see the man’s breathing turning erratic; his chest was heaving up and down heavily like there were bricks on top of his ribcage, crushing him down. The village chief did not move and Major Gwak sent Jongin a look and a raise of his bushy eyebrows. 

 

Jongin stepped closer behind Jung and his left hand fitted on the back of the man’s head. The room was quiet as he cupped the elder’s skull before his fingers threaded through hair. He made it as slow as possible as Jung stiffened under his hold. Jongin took a fistful of hair before he  _ pulled _ .

 

The sharp tug made Jung release a loud yowl of pain. Jongin yanked the man’s hair but the other continued to struggle. The village chief shied away from his touch, trying to break free, and Jongin had to use his free hand to force him to stop. He snaked it around the man’s jaw, putting it in a bruising hold, fingers digging into skin. When Jung resisted, he scraped his nails on the man’s face, deliberately leaving angry red marks. 

 

“Name,” Gwak said. The heels of his boots clicked on the cemented floors as he took a step forward. The man was shorter than Jongin but he was domineering, someone who could take and fill up an entire room with just his presence.

 

Jung looked like he was about to resist so Jongin saved the both of them the trouble and gave the man’s scalp a harsh pull. His nails dug on the skin. The elder gave another hiss of pain as Jongin pushed his fingernails deeper. Crescent marks were tattooed just like that, as blood was drawn in pink lines.

 

“Jung,” he gasped. Jongin loosened his hold on the village chief and Gwak made a pleased sound. Jongin’s heart was pounding inside his chest from a flurry of emotions. There was a storm brewing somewhere in the recesses of his mind that he was ignoring. Gwak gave him an approving glance and Jongin, who usually would preen, felt something chilly coil in his stomach, climbing up his chest.

 

“Now, Chief Jung,” Major Gwak drawled. He linked his fingers behind his back as he clicked his tongue on the back of his teeth. The two soldiers behind him had yet to speak, had yet to breathe. Jongin tightened his hold on Jung’s hair but the nails he had tried to embed on the elder’s skin had slackened. The pink marks looked atrocious. 

 

Major Gwak opened his mouth once more to spout poison. “You’re going to lead us to your home and we’re going to search you for evidence of collusion against the State. If you don’t comply—” Gwak’s face pulled into a smile that was borderline predatory. Jongin curbed a shiver from going down his spine. Jung was not as successful. “—then I have on good faith that you have two daughters, no?”

 

Jung took a sharp intake of breath and his mouth tried to form the words, tongue chasing after the bitter thought. Jongin saw the exact moment when the dam broke, water spilling everywhere. It was a sight to see—especially this close. Gwak could break a man into tiny pieces with a look and a well placed statement, all without touching the gun holstered around his hip. 

 

“Please!” Jung begged. His voice was high while his legs were trembling. He fell from the bench he was sitting on and his knees hit the ground, pulling Jongin’s hand with him. Jongin let go of the other immediately when Jung started begging, shuffling around uselessly. Gwak was gazing at him, at the chief inside the walls of the village’s—his—administrative hall, on his knees like he was in a church, praying to god. 

 

Gwak looked amused. Jongin looked away.

 

He heard more than saw the sobs as Jung cried out, “Not my daughters. I will do anything you ask just don’t hurt my children. Please.”

 

Gwak clicked his tongue again and this time, it was with a smile. It made Jongin cold with how warm it looked. He felt everything go off kilter at that moment as everything seemed to start rearranging itself—slow nudges, pushes and pulls here and there.

 

“You’re an easy man, Jung,” Gwak said. Jongin chanced a glance and he could see the major grinning down at the village chief’s prone form. The two soldier’s flanking Gwak were looking straight, elsewhere. Kyungsoo’s words rang inside Jongin’s head—that those who stood idle were just as culpable as the perpetrators.

 

Sunlight streamed though the windows, catching the sheen of gunmetal and making them gleam. Jongin breathed and looked away.

  
  


* * *

  
  


In the span of two hours, Jongin felt like him and the rest of the soldiers had turned the village inside out. Some of the men had gone into houses, the ones with tiered roofs instead of plaited straws. There were barely any people out and about and those who had gone outside were the ones who were acting like there was nothing wrong.

 

Jongin watched as one of the villagers, someone he did not know the name of but had definitely seen around twice or thrice, led a small unit of soldiers into one of the streets, pointing at the large gates made with thick wood and thicker cast iron. The camaraderie that had lulled Jongin into slumber had faded into an illusion when he watched the same people who had lived in this place taking a hold of the soldiers, walking them into the houses of the rich.

 

It should not shock Jongin. But it did. 

 

On the third hour, he had yet to see a single strand of Kyungsoo’s hair. In one of the smaller alleyways, smoke had gone up, pitch black, as screams echoed in silence. Jongin watched from afar, listening to the sounds of cries and pleas, of pained moans cut off in the middle.

 

He looked away.

 

On the fourth hour, the unit that Major Gwak had dispatched came back along with the men of the hour themselves. Gwak was waving around envelopes while Jung had dried tear tracks on his face. Jongin did not see anyone trailing after him and he was not sure if he should feel relieved.

 

And then, the major said, “Follow me to the courtyard, Senior Lieutenant Kim.”

 

One of Gwak’s men gripped Jung’s shoulder harshly and the man faltered in his step, fumbling because of the tremors on his knees. Jongin walked past him, a step behind the older soldier. He heard rustling noises and the sound of skin meeting skin. 

 

Jongin continued walking.

 

In the courtyard, there was an audience of people. Jongin felt the cold first before the accusing stares. A few meters to his left, the woman that had given Kyungsoo an extra piece of candy when he had bought a bag shot him a questioning look. His face remained stoic. 

 

Sehun was already there, standing around with some of the other soldiers. Jongin was surprised to see two other villagers kneeling on the ground. Gwak stopped in the middle while the private escorting Jung pushed him forward.

 

The village chief fell on his shins, hands on the ground. He joined the two other men and, when Jongin looked closely, he could see that they were still boys—fresh faced and barely into adulthood. They were probably around eighteen or nineteen, if Jongin would hazard a guess.

 

Before he could take a shallow inhale, Gwak drew the folded pieces of papers from inside the envelopes in his hold. He waved it around and Jongin noticed they were letters when some of the pages fell to the ground. No one bothered picking it up. Breaths were held amidst the tense atmosphere.

 

With the practiced ring of a leader, Major Gwak spoke up, carrying over the crowd, “My men and I have found evidences of your village chief, Chief Jung, conspiring against the true Korea.” He held one of the pages in front of his face as disgust flashed across his face. Jongin waited with bated breath. 

 

Gwak read out loud, “ _ ‘There are men from the North Korean People’s Army staying in my village. There are only twenty-three of them but I suspect that more of them will come. I do not know when but I have a premonition that the North will be moving soon. My best guess is that they will take the Ongjin Peninsula first as it is an isolated location and will be much harder to defend.’ _ ”

 

Murmurs erupted from the crowd and Gwak allowed it to happen. After a short while, his voice rose above the din. Jongin remained frozen where he was standing. The major added with a sardonic smile, “There was a detailed account of our armaments housed into one of the storages owned by Chief Jung himself. It was signed on the 21st of April.”

 

Chatter erupted again before Gwak clapped his hands. Silence fell instantly, except Jongin was hearing explosions and heartbeats.

 

“The other two—” The major gave an offhanded wave towards the two boys, now shaking desperately and crying loudly. “—were used by Jung to deliver the messages to Ongjin. We have found several more letters, the contents of which all accounting to treason.”

 

There was dead silence as the major’s statement sank in. The words were lodged deep in Jongin’s throat and he froze up when Gwak took his weapon out of his holster. The revolver was polished clean. People took a step back.

 

Major Gwak’s fingers were straight on the barrel but his thumb was hovering over the safety. The three men seemed to have started shaking harder, sobs being wretched out of their throats as their words started to fail them. Jongin knew there was no defending the three of them.

 

He knew no one was to interfere and Gwak circled the three like a predator. Jongin wondered why no one was leaving the scene before he it came to him like slow circles on paper. Major Gwak wanted an audience.

 

Jongin was about to play blind when a familiar blur pushed itself in front. His mouth was about to drop to the ground in surprise except the soldier in him knew where he was. He watched as Kyungsoo stepped forward, eyes blazing and soldiers tensed.

 

There was an unmistakable cloud of fury over his eyes. His hands were curled into tight fists and his teeth were bared, ready to snap and snarl. Gwak eyed him with amusement but he seemed to brush the man off. Jongin felt like he could breathe when the major passed his gaze from the fuming Kyungsoo and—

 

“There is no treason when there is no state,” Kyungsoo said. His voice did not waver and Jongin, in a second, felt pride well up inside him before he thought,  _ shit,  _ as fear quickly replaced the burgeoning warmth inside him—the good kind.

 

“There is one, boy,” Gwak rolled his eyes, twisted his mouth while he looked at Kyungsoo up and down. “The North planned to unify the peninsula, saving it from that dictator Syngman Rhee. Be grateful for the liberation we’re giving to the people of Korea.”

 

The offhand remark seemed to have pissed Kyungsoo off and he gave a short huff. “Unification? Liberation? Don’t joke with me,  _ Sir. _ ” The honorific slid off from the man’s tongue, impolite. Jongin was about to take a step forward when gasps were heard.

 

His world shattered when he saw Gwak’s revolver pointing dead center at Kyungsoo’s chest. From their distance, Jongin knew that the major could shoot Kyungsoo fairly easily. In less than a second, a bullet could whizz and lodge itself into Kyungsoo’s form—blood splattering, a body barely breathing.

 

Gwak did not shoot. Instead, his arm remained straight and steady.  Jongin was about to step out when he felt a hand on the crook of his elbow. When he turned around, he saw Sehun’s warning face, shaking his head at him.

 

Jongin faltered as he watched the catastrophe unfold before his eyes.

 

There was a smile on Gwak’s face and Jongin knew what it was—it was the smile of men before they broke another. He asked, “Would you like for me to let them go?”

 

“Yes,” was Kyungsoo’s simple answer.

 

Gwak tilted his head to the side and Jongin awaited the explosion from the muzzle of the firearm. The major’s arm was still stretched out and his index finger was parallel to the length of the barrel. With malevolence on his face, Major Gwak said, “Then get on your knees and you’ll be punished in their stead.”

 

Kyungsoo visibly stuttered at that. His head snapped to the men on their knees—crying and bruised. On Chief Jung’s face, Jongin knew that the purpling marks fit the shape and size of his fingers. He watched as Kyungsoo’s right foot take a step and the air was still around them. No one was speaking. Jongin was barely able to breathe, wanting nothing more than to throw himself in front of Kyungsoo and stop whatever it is that he was thinking of doing.

 

Pointless altruism. Self-sacrificing heroism. Idiocy.

 

He could see the war crossing Kyungsoo’s face. One second it was not there, and the next second, there it was. It showed on the way his cheeks flushed with anger and the way his Adam’s apple bobbed, his throat was tense and closing up. Jongin could see the hesitation in Kyungsoo’s stance and he was sure that the major did not miss it.

 

Gwak made a thoughtful noise as his mouth stretched in a wide smile. He picked the clip off of his revolver and Jongin’s heart thudded in his chest, thinking the man was about to shoot Kyungsoo. Kyungsoo trembled but he was frozen where he was.

 

And then,  _ bang _ .

 

Jongin watched as one of the boys crumpled to the ground with a loud cry, clutching his shoulders. Kyungsoo stood still, breathing labored. His hands were covering his mouth and his eyes were wide, tinged with emotion. Fear was blatant on his face, chest heaving quickly.

 

Gwak fired two more times and both Jung and the other boy fell to the ground with loud howls of pain. The soil was painted red as the three of them writhed. No one had yet to scream among Gwak’s gathered audience. Most of them were covering their eyes and some were even covering their ears.

 

The major re-placed the gun into the holster without another glance. His eyes were trained on Kyungsoo’s and Jongin’s heart was up in his throat at this point. The tips of his fingers were cold and his hands were curled into fists, trying to stop them from shaking. Sehun’s hand was still on his elbow, as if trying to hold him in place lest he bolted.

 

Fury coursed through Jongin’s core and then—relief. 

 

Kyungsoo was standing there, shaken, but whole. Alive and warm. There were tears pooling in the other man’s eyes but Jongin could content himself with that. Kyungsoo breathing was better than anything else that could have happened.

 

Jongin knew in that moment—maybe even before, but the admittance was only now, when he watched Kyungsoo’s knees almost giving out under him—that if Gwak had pulled the trigger on the other man, then Jongin would have pulled his on his commanding officer, the muzzle of his gun on a temple. No mercy. No remorse.

 

_ You can do a lot of things—with love _ .

  
  


* * *

  
  


When afternoon hit, the village had long gone quiet. The soldiers had settled inside their makeshift quarters—Chief Jung’s house, putting up the smaller communication devices and bringing out the dried food. Both of the chief’s daughters were staying in another family’s house but they were left unharmed, for the most part. The two boys and Jung were haphazardly tended to by one of the military doctors that Gwak had brought him, wrapping thin gauze around the bloody soldier. The major had thrown the doctor a look when he tried to offer anesthetic to numb the pain, claiming that it was a waste of medical supplies to use them on people sympathizing with the South. 

 

Jongin was still reeling from the adrenaline of the afternoon when Major Gwak had called him from the living room alongside the other senior lieutenants. The elder soldier addressed them with a stare and they all saluted in attention, simultaneous—trained dogs to do their master’s bidding. Jongin tasted bile rising to his throat on his tongue. It nauseated him, the feeling of being trapped inside a room that was not theirs, that they had taken from another.

 

Gwak gave them a slow nod and ordered, straight to the point, “I have a list of civilian men that I put under your command. You have less than a day to make sure they could kill at least one bastard from the other side before they kick the bucket.”

 

He drummed his fingers on the table and Jongin was still looking at the officer. It was a juxtaposition—here they were, standing properly with their backs like rods while a soldier of a higher rank, whom they were under the direct command of, was sitting on the floor, legs sprawled carelessly. There was glass of rice wine and a bottle that was half full.

 

“Whoever you train would also be your responsibility once we march to meet the battalion and then the rest of the regiment.” The major took a long sip of his alcohol. It was barely 13:00 and Jongin could already imagine how much the elder’s breath is already been stinking with the pungent smell of the fermented drink.

 

He added with a wave of his fingers, “Your command would increase in size, more than what is conventional for your rank. Don’t ask me for any promotions.” He gave a shrug and his stare ran all over their waiting faces. “You will get it when you get it. For now, our main objective is to follow Lieutenant Colonel Jo’s directives.”

 

Without any more words, Major Gwak handed them a slip of paper each. The ink bled through to the other side and it stained Jongin’s fingertips. Idly, he thought it was similar to bloodied skin—the red that was not his on the gold of his complexion.

 

Jongin perused the page, reading the names. His heart jumped and his stomach dropped suddenly when he saw one of the names. His fingers did not shake but it was a damn near thing.

 

There, before a nineteen-year old man named Ryu Byungho, was Do Kyungsoo, 25, an orphan.

 

Jongin’s world tilted as the breath was stolen from his lungs with the scrawled characters. It seemed that he would have to make do with his promise to the older man in a different manner.

 

He thought of how basic training usually went and wondered how long he and Kyungsoo would last before the older man would look at him, only to see a different person. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Jongin was given eleven men, boys really, green around the edges with farm-rough hands and bright eyes. The eldest among the draftees—if they were even that—was Kyungsoo at 25 years old. The youngest was barely 18, three months away from his birthday. Jongin could not remember the names of the males on his roster, not when he knew from experience that they could easily fade away in the middle of the war at a rate slightly slower than a fired bullet.

 

Two of his privates had stuffed them in sewn uniforms—a one size fits all outfit that was scratchy on the skin. The boots were either too big or too small as nothing was still theirs, would probably not be theirs. They were in the middle of war that, from the way they were holding the guns and dragging feet while running along the pebbled trails for training, none of them wanted.

 

Jongin watched but the truth was he could only see Kyungsoo. His vision was filled with the older man—Kyungsoo wearing the uniform wrong, too big and too awkward like the war was never for him, Kyungsoo holding the gun wrong, finger already on the trigger, Kyungsoo breathing steady as they covered miles worth of running distance, never stopping and never seeming like he was about to lose his breath. Jongin watched eleven men but he could only see one of them.

 

Multiple times, Jongin had to catch himself from saying Kyungsoo, repeating the first name again and again as fondness made itself known. His eyes had not strayed, had not left the man as he stole moments and seconds the way they had kept doing, but he had drawn the line at calling Kyungsoo by his name and, instead, opting with  _ Do _ .

 

The afternoon sky disappeared like that, with Jongin shouting orders at the draftees, and the eleven of them, while without proper training or protocol, had not complained a single time. Jongin, if he was to be honest, was waiting for Kyungsoo to explode at his face, waiting for the man to spit in front of him in question.

 

At the very least, that would have Kyungsoo looking at him, unlike this nightmare he had wanted to end as the older male had seemingly ignored his presence with a staunch air.

  
  


* * *

  
  


**_June 25, 1950_ **

 

If Jongin had thought that the end of the world would come in a sudden explosion, all thick clouds of dark smoke and debris, then he supposed he was wrong. 

 

The end of the world came with the ringing of gunshots amidst the large expanse of silence, stretching from where it should not be, in the middle of Ongjin that was miles away from where they were. It was no more than several fired shots, tiny disturbances in the air, but the delicate flaps of the wings created thunderstorms. One moment, they were in the village near the border, training men and the next, when barely a day had passed, Major Gwak was marching them down to meet the rest of the of the battalion and then, the regiment.

 

Amidst almost 4,000 men in their unit, Jongin felt like an ant that could quickly disappear under the radar, easily slipping into MIA before anything had ever truly begun. Yet, here he was, leading his own platoon in the 105th, a band of haphazard puppets—eleven of whom had never touched a gun before, much less fired one.

 

One of whom, Jongin had come to know for two months now, quick to steal away the identity that he had carefully cultivated from the years he had spent in the cracked streets of Wonsan before the years of military enslavement. Kyungsoo looked at odds with the soldiers, seemingly lost in the middle of the thick atmosphere of the war that already was.

 

At early morning, they had followed the men who had already crossed the border behind artillery fire. The funny thing was, someone as miniscule as Jongin had no idea what or why, anymore. Major Gwak directed them under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Jo. Jo was under their regiment’s colonel, an old man that was pushing 50, that Jongin had only seen walking in the middle of the camp, but had never talked to, even once.

 

The funny thing was, for Jongin, the 25th of June had not been anything remarkable. When he went to bed, lying on the ground with pebbles lining his back and lulled by the sound of enemy fire and thunderous voices, the only thing he could think about was Kyungsoo—who had yet to speak to him, but whose eyes had bored through his figure as they crossed the parallel, side by side with a villager whose name had still eluded him but he had remembered for his glare and his steady hands as he pulled the trigger and hit bullseye.

  
  


* * *

  
  


**_June 26, 1950_ **

 

Jongin woke up after an hour and a quick survey around their makeshift home showed signs of life. The warehouse they had requisitioned in Uijungbu, in the province of Gyeonggi, was heavy with the noises of men. Some were visibly unable to sleep, bags under their eyes, and the others, the ones who had been older, looked like they had no problem curling underneath threadbare sacks that were being used as blankets.

 

He rolled his own bed pallet, stuffing it inside the military issued pack before he went to the bathroom with his ration of bath products. He carefully avoided the sprawled bodies on the ground as he roamed the large area that had been reduced to canned breathing space. He stepped over and aside sleeping men and some, he noted, had neither the improvised blanket nor the crude bed. 

 

He wondered if Kyungsoo had one, seeing as he was still only a draftee unlike Jongin, who was already a Senior Lieutenant from the armed division. He almost tripped over a private thrashing in his sleep and moaning, stubbing his big toe against the flank of another. Neither of them woke up.

 

When Jongin walked through the small hallway, he found himself taking deep breaths and slowing down. Here, the air seemed clearer, less polluted and smelling of gunpowder and blood. Sweat had beaded on his forehead as his heart pounded in his chest, fingers shaking and palms clammy. Jongin’s hand went to the revolver that was holstered on him still—a habit; no one was to let go of their hand gun during these times, at any hour. 

 

The metal was cold against the skin of his hand as his sweaty palms slid over the length of the barrel. His index finger was quick to go through the muzzle and his hand spanned the entire firearm. The lines of his palm curved over the arc of the cartridge, heavy with the load of several 7.62mm bullets.

 

When he came to, it was in fast blinks and breaths. Jongin felt like time had run away from him once more. It was to the constant sound, faraway, of boisterous laughter and low pitched ribbing. His hand was still ghosting over the gun as the temperature of it pulled him down, bringing him back from where he had floated to.

 

With a deep sigh, he carded his fingers through his hair roughly, pulling the strands with little force—enough that there was pain grounding him to the moment. It slid down to his neck and crawled over the wooden beads of his mother’s rosary, tucked under his uniform. 

 

Jongin found the communal bathroom, most likely meant for the people who had worked in the warehouse before they had stormed it and taken it, when he turned right. The hallway was narrower here, a safety hazard. The lights were flickering and making tiny grating noises that added to the eeriness of after midnight.

 

As he stepped in front of the door, he heard muffled groans, interspersed with curses and the sound of someone retching. The hallway turned dark in less than a second before it brightened up again. Jongin took a long inhale before he allowed the stream of air out slowly.

 

His palm was still damp with sweat and when it closed around the metal knob, it slipped off cleanly. Jongin heard the same noises and he thought of ‘fuck it’ and leaving whoever was inside to his first night of military misery. Yet, the pressing need to wash his face and maybe shave the beginnings of a shadow above his lip had him wiping his hand on his trousers.

 

The hinges cried when he pushed the door open. The was a man dressed like one of the privates. The hem of his pants pooled around his ankles as he was bent low on the side, making choking sounds and coughing. Jongin blinked and he squinted his eyes under the harsh lights, trying to make out the familiar figure crouched on the floor. His brows furrowed and—

 

“Kyungsoo?” He gasped. He pushed the door to close and the screech it made was loud before it clicked into place with a bang. The older man’s neck snapped at that, turning around. His eyes widened the moment he saw Jongin. He could make out Kyungoo’s pale face, turning green with how ill he sounded. All thoughts of himself flew away when the other turned his back to heave dryly once, and then, two more times.

 

Jongin crossed the distance in three strides before he was dropping onto his knees beside the shorter male. Kyungsoo flinched when Jongin's hand rested on his shoulder. A frown marred his face as something cold rolled over the pit of his stomach before it melted away when Kyungsoo sunk into the sensation of his warmth. The man turned to him with a wan smile, opening his mouth, only to be interrupted by a cough. He heaved some more and Jongin winced as he smelled bile on the floor. Kyungsoo shivered under his hand and the only thing he could do was rub the man’s back. His hair was already short but Jongin’s other hand fit itself around the other male’s skull, drawing circles on the scalp in what he hoped was a soothing gesture.

 

He let Kyungsoo crouch, trying to vomit his guts unsuccessfully. His knees were still on the floor as he gave the older man space to breathe while still keeping close, not wanting to spend a second away when the other looked like he was death personified. 

 

After a  minute or two, Kyungsoo gave one last heave, still dry, before he straightened up. Jongin pulled the other from where he was still crouching, supporting Kyungsoo as he leaned him against his side. He did not ask if the male was okay but settled instead for saying, “Hold on to me.”

 

Fingers curled into the material of his military uniform as Kyungsoo whimpered. Jongin wrapped his arm around the man’s narrow shoulders, hand gripping his upper arm. He walked the two of them carefully to where the sink was.

 

Jongin let go of Kyungsoo and the man’s right hand held the chipping edge of the sink. His fingernails scraped ineffectively on the concrete as he slumped down. Jongin pulled a small cup from the pouch he had set a foot away, filling it with water from the tap. The industrial bathroom was unlike some of the ones in some of the poorer households in the countryside where Kyungsoo had come from. From a reach away, there was a large container of salt so they could clean their teeth. He scooped a little and he placed his hand under the slow stream of water before stirring the mixture with his index finger.

 

“Gargle with this,” he ordered, handing Kyungsoo the cup. 

 

Kyungsoo’s fingers were still trembling and when he raised his head, Jongin’s heart clenched at the croak of “Thank you.” The older male’s pallor was green and sickly; his fingers were shaking as he reached for the cup of saltwater. Jongin handed it to him as he enveloped Kyungsoo’s right hand into his larger one. He wrapped the man’s fingers carefully, around the curvature of the cup. Kyungsoo closed his eyes as he gargled. Jongin’s hands were underneath the man’s chin in case some of the water spilled.

 

When Kyungsoo had finished, Jongin held the other’s jawline. The skin was cold and the color had yet to return to the man’s cheeks. His thumb wiped away the remnants of salt water around Kyungsoo’s mouth before he leaned in.

 

He fitted his mouth against the other man’s, kissing him tenderly. When he stepped closer, Jongin could feel Kyungsoo going stiff because of his touch. He opened his mouth and moved it, catching the male’s lower lip in between his. When he swiped his tongue, Kyungsoo had relaxed and returned the affection. Jongin pushed the other against the sink and his free hand went to Kyungsoo’s back. It trailed ghosts of touches on the coarse fabric of the uniform as his fingers moved down. He slipped his hand in between the concrete edge and the soft flesh just above Kyungsoo’s tailbone before he deepened the kiss. The concrete was rough against the back of his hand but the warmth of Kyungsoo’s back on his palm dulled the ache.

 

It was Kyungsoo who pulled away first and his hand pushed against Jongin’s chest from where there was barely any space between their bodies. The older male’s eyes darted to the still closed door as he swiped his tongue over his upper lip. He said, with a hitch on his voice, “Someone could have walked in on us, Jongin.”

 

Jongin would be lying if he said that there was no fear that coursed within him in the middle of their exchange, now that he was not kissing Kyungsoo and his mind could think properly again. Yet, he knew that it was not the truth either. He gave a series of slow blinks, eyeing the man’s face. It was slightly pink. Jongin withdrew his hands to his sides.

 

“You taste salty,” he said.

 

Kyungsoo huffed out a laugh. “Well, you taste like you also need a gargle.”

 

Jongin returned it with a grin and he said, “I do. That’s why I came here. And I found—” His eyes roam Kyungsoo’s figure, glad that the other could stand without his knees buckling underneath him. “—you looking sick and puking up the meal from a couple of hours ago.”

 

He stared Kyungsoo down and the man averted his eyes, looking everywhere except in Jongin’s direction. He sighed and he turned his head to glance at the door. The chances of anyone walking in on them were slim, what with the late hour and the fact that supplies had yet to be rationed properly. Not everyone was given packs of soap and Jongin would hazard that not everyone had a wooden box containing a shaving kit, pilfered from somewhere even he could not remember.

 

Jongin stepped forward and he gathered Kyungsoo in his arms.

 

The older man squirmed in his hold, protesting, “Don’t. Someone will see us and—”

 

“And then what?” Jongin said against Kyungsoo’s hair, soft. “We’ll get turned away or they will shoot us.” He angled his head, kissing the shorter man’s temple and murmuring against the skin, “Let us have this moment. Give me a minute, Kyungsoo.” And then, “I’ll never let that happen to you.”

 

The man gave a small noise of protest but he buried his face in the side of Jongin’s neck. Jongin felt weak at the contact, legs seemingly ready to give out from underneath him. He switched both of their positions as he sagged against the sink and Kyungsoo pressed open mouthed kisses against his skin.

 

He laughed, commented idly, as he leaned his head to the side and gave the man access. “I thought you didn’t want to get caught.”

 

Kyungsoo huffed against his neck, warm breath tickling him alongside the short tendrils of his hair. He did not answer as he moved his lips to pepper the column of Jongin’s throat with light, barely there kisses.

 

Jongin sighed, contented.

 

When Kyungsoo stopped his movements, Jongin’s skin was red and there was pleasant heat that had pooled in his gut. Not lust, but the familiarity of physical contact and intimacy with the smaller male in his hold.

 

Kyungsoo snaked his hands around Jongin’s waist, resting both his palms there. Jongin allowed the silence between them to grow as the two of them looked at each other. There was a small smile on Kyungsoo’s face, even though he could see apprehension and fear on it. Jongin figured he was smiling like an idiot, smitten in every manner possible.

 

After another minute, he asked softly, “Why were you avoiding me, darling?”

 

Kyungsoo’s smile turned into a slow grimace but he retorted, caressing Jongin’s cheek. It was sarcastic, at best. “It’s only been three days, sweetheart.”

 

Jongin shook his head in amusement. Kyungsoo was the momentary respite in this godforsaken hellhole. Like this, he was able to breathe. He answered, “Three days too long.” A pause before, “Was I already a stranger to you?”

 

“No,” Kyungsoo answered simply. Jongin had no idea if it was the truth but Kyungsoo was looking into his eyes, straight and without any hesitation. He took it, and kept it. 

 

Something in the air shifted.

 

The older man asked after Jongin had nodded, “Are you scared?”

 

“Only the dead are unafraid of war, Kyungsoo,” Jongin replied. He took another whiff of Kyungsoo’s scent and the man still smelled like sunlight, even if Jongin could also note the slight smell of sweat and dirt that clung to the other man. He added, “I am. I’m very scared.”

 

Jongin did not say— _ I’m more scared of losing you _ . 

 

Kyungsoo buried his face deeper, sinking down as their shared heat melted away the space between their bodies. The other male’s hands were tracing the outline of Jongin’s flank, fingers dancing along and over the garment. Jongin wondered, remembered, if the metal ridges of his gun holster dug into the soft flesh of Kyungsoo’s stomach.

 

The two of them breathed the quiet air and Jongin was thankful that there were no heavy footfalls of military sanctioned boots outside the communal bathroom. Kyungsoo was pliant in his arms just as he was pliant in the other man’s. He kept his head were it was, resting against the male’s as vacuum of stillness made the memories of last night bleed away.

 

“How are you?” Jongin asked, apropos of nothing to break the silence. He wanted to hear Kyungsoo speak, wanted the man to talk to him. Jongin would not let Kyungsoo retreat inside his head, knowing just how detrimental it was for a soldier—especially for a man like Kyungsoo, who had resisted the ideals that were shoved into his direction and was, quite literally, put to this with a gun trained on his heart.

 

“Not okay,” the older man mumbled, honest. Jongin’s heart shattered and he gulped in air, trying to breathe through his mouth. His inhale jostled Kyungsoo’s prone form. Fingers gripped the material of his uniform, wrinkling it. Jongin did not say anything. “I killed men today.”

 

The admission was quiet but it echoed inside the empty bathroom. The walls heard the confession like church halls and Jongin’s hold around Kyungsoo’s body tightened. He asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

 

Kyungsoo shook his head and the sharp intake of air was sudden. The tension that hung between the two of them was palpable and Jongin waited for the other man to push himself away and point a trembling finger at him, blaming him and telling him that it was all his fault. Jongin would gather all the accusations and they would burn his miserable flesh to hell.

 

Kyungsoo answered, repeated, “I killed men today.”

 

The shorter of the two had yet to back off and Jongin relished in the moment. With Kyungsoo, he feared it could be the last—because of the war, one way or another, and because he was who he was, Senior Lieutenant Kim Jongin of the 105th Armored Division.

 

“How many?” said Jongin.

 

“Too many,” said Kyungsoo. A lapse of silence, twinned inhales and an exhales: “I had blood under my fingernails afterwards.”

 

“It could be dirt. Blood turns brown after some time.”

 

“I tasted it.” Kyungsoo sobbed brokenly. Jongin did not feel wetness on his shirt but the other sounded like he was crying. It was worse—not to be able to let go and shed tears despite how broken and wet he had already sounded. He added, “It was red.”

 

Jongin tried to hold Kyungsoo together and the elder asked, “Do you even remember what happened?”

 

His breath quickened and he was sure Kyungsoo could figure out the answer with the speed of his thumping heart. Jongin needlessly replied, “No. Everything blurs after a while.”

 

“How many more deaths, Jongin?” Kyungsoo whispered. “How many more should I kill before I stop remembering? I don’t want to sleep because I’m scared I’ll see them in my dreams.”

 

Jongin said, “It never really stops. The dreams.” 

 

He kissed Kyungsoo on the man’s forehead, bending his neck, and his mouth trailed on the bridge of the older male’s nose, pressing a chaste kiss on the tip of his nose, too, and then, on the corner of his lips before he took Kyungsoo’s mouth with his. 

 

“Your nightmares will always stay with you.” His voice broke and his heartbeat stuttered. Jongin felt like he had swallowed the universe whole, with how constricted his throat felt. Thinking about the aftermath, how the war would have touched Kyungsoo differently now, more intimate than what had happened to his parents, sent shivers down his spine. 

 

He added, “I think I’ve told you before—no one is ever truly the same afterwards.”

 

“You did,” Kyungsoo hiccuped. The fingers on his uniform twisted. “I want to go home.”

 

The air was knocked out of Jongin’s lungs at Kyungsoo’s words. He cradled the other male close and he said—because he truly had nothing to tell the other man except this—with the quiet resignation of a broken man, “I’m so sorry, Kyungsoo.”

 

Jongin had been trying to come home from the war and when he had thought he had finally found one that would welcome him in the form of a man with wide eyes and a heart-shaped smile—Kyungsoo, the two of them ended up being lost together in another war that was not theirs, and would never truly be.

  
  


* * *

  
  


**_June 27, 1950_ **

 

Seoul loomed after Uijungbu as dawn slowly took the night sky away. The rest of the infantrymen followed the tanks and the armored vehicles as they trundled south, traveling the trail of swirling dust and gunshots. There were ringing screams in the distance that were swallowed by the loud booming noises of cannons amidst heavy artillery shootouts.

 

Under the command of Major Gwak, Jongin’s platoon had dissolved into the larger company. Ranks were practically useless when everyone was dying or busy killing. Jongin had lost his insignia two hours ago when a guerrilla group from the ROK Army had ambushed his small unit that was flanking the main one. He had grazed his upper arm for the trouble and had lost three men. Just around the outskirts of Seoul, three corpses were forgotten, faces covered by cloth as no one could do much of anything.

 

Military trucks blared with sirens from miles away and Gwak had directed Jongin’s platoon, among several others, to halt. ROK was both outnumbered and outgunned, having neither the manpower nor the armaments.

 

Jongin had bled through the events of the hour and then the next. There was a gun holstered on his person before his hand had unclipped the weapon from where it was secured on his waist. He ran across the terrain and he had found himself hidden among a thicket of shrubs. The branches scratched the skin of his face and his neck and they had caught him unawares, almost ripping the back of his uniform clean off of him.

 

From his vantage point, Jongin loaded the rifle and had killed men—his bullet through their skulls and then through their chests. Sometimes, when they were moving in front of him, he would take them out, hitting their legs or their lower spine. When they crumbled, Jongin would mumble, “ _ Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo _ ,” alongside a quiet  _ amen  _ before another bullet would whizz out of the muzzle.

 

From the Lord’s prayer that his mother had drilled into his head since he could speak, repeating syllables he did not know the meanings of, curling his tongue around the letter r, Jongin had only remembered the last part because three years ago, in a town up North, he learned that it was an apology from a missionary that he had shot point blank right afterwards with a shower of blood and a soundless scream.

 

He figured, even if there was neither a god nor a Jesus Christ aside from the blasphemous curses he would spit out—a dead body was a dead body, cold against the warmth of the gunmetal he was holding.

 

Jongin had finished the first bullet round of his rifle and he had breezed through the next ones fairly quickly. Without thinking, he felt the man leave behind the ghost of a killer, closer to a machine than a breathing person as he eyed a moving body from meters away, pulling the trigger. His shoulder bounced slightly from the recoil as he tensed his stomach to withstand the inertia.

 

When he came to, the soil that was previously murky brown had already turned red and smelled of rust and sulfur. He was scraped multiple times with shallow cuts, and he could feel the shape of a bullet that had lodged deep in to the flesh of his left side, judging by how dark the liquid had seeped into the fabric of his uniform. Jongin could feel his back protesting and his limbs going numb as he felt light headed. The sky had turned dark without him knowing.

 

Jongin stood up slowly as he pressed the palm of his hand on the wound. His finger traced the opened channel but he did not pull the bullet out, knowing it could hasten the blood loss. Instead, he let out a hiss under his breath. A drawn out, “Fuck!” His left boot crunched against a short piece of twig, breaking it into two.

 

“When did I even get shot?” Jongin wondered out loud as he stumbled out towards the sound of the familiar language. It was perhaps confidence, or idiocy, that had told Jongin that it was his own camp, his own brothers in the North Korean People’s Army who were left alive and standing.

 

They had the advantage, at the very least. At most, they had the support of the Soviet Union even if they were sweeping the gravity of the war under the rug.

 

Jongin’s thought had ran away from him the instant he came out of his spot while he tracked blood. His eyes were so blurry that when he heard a surprised gasp, he could not recognize the person who made the sound. He could vaguely make out the outline of the person several feet away from where he had stopped. His feet felt like lead. He staggered towards the other, a male that was shorter than he was, as his knees trembled and his boots weighed a ton with every step he was taking. The man whom he did not know rushed to his aid, slinging one of his arm across a slumped back. 

 

He heard a worried, “Senior Lieutenant Kim? Senior Lieutenant Kim, are you okay? Help! Someone help me carry him to the infir—”

 

And then, darkness and silence.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Jongin woke up with a nightmare imprinted on the back of his lids and a scream that was caught underneath his tongue. He shot up from the thin mattress and the low scaffold creaked and protested at the sudden shift in weight. When he sat up, Jongin felt a shooting pain travel from the side of his body to everywhere else—his spine, his toes, his head, even the tips of his cold fingers. Bile rose to his throat as his fingers grappled on the thin covers that were scratchy against his bare skin.

 

He looked down and his trousers were replaced—the cotton was loose around his legs and the band was low on his hip. His torso was bare and there was a white bandage wrapped around it securely. A safety pin held the material in place and Jongin's hand flitted over the gauze under the overlapping medical strips. There was a small dot of blood that soaked through the material.

 

“I see you’re awake.”

 

Jongin snapped his head to the direction of the voice and he instantly regretted the action when he felt a pang that was akin to a knife digging into his tender flesh that was already bruised. He hissed, “That fucking hurts,” before he glared at the man dressed in casual clothes in front of him. Jongin huffed, “Who the fuck are you?”

 

The man rolled his eyes and his chin was thrown up. He said, “I’m Doctor Kim Minseok. I am one of the military physicians employed for the 105th Armored Division.”

 

Jongin grinned wryly as he sat up against the wall. The pillow was barely stuffed and it did nothing to provide support from where he had leaned it against the wall. He coughed and the pain was a true son of a bitch. He managed a terse, “That was fucking unfortunate, Dr. Kim Minseok of the 105th.” He shrugged, pressing hard on the bullet wound, adding, “Truly fucking unfortunate.”

 

The doctor gave him a teasing grin as he joked, “You’re less eloquent when you’re in pain, Sir.”

 

The man chuckled as he puttered around. Jongin’s good grace towards the higher ranking officials in his regiment must have bought him, not a private room per se, but a closed off section of their sick bay where he did not have to hear the coughing and the dying breaths of the other miserable fucks who had lost an arm or a leg or a life.

 

“More talkative, too, when you’re pumped full of drugs, are you not, Senior Lieutenant Kim Jongin?” Minseok added.

 

“Call me Jongin, Dr. Kim,” he requested. He clutched his injured side as he took the pressure off by resting most of his weight on his right side. “Pretty weird to call you Doctor Kim since I kind of just started imagining myself tending to the sick—which, well, I can’t.” He grimaced. The doctor laughed. “I’m sure we’ll see each other more often.”

 

Doctor Kim Minseok looked startled at that before he walked three paces to knock on the wooden cabinet that housed some of the rations of their medical supplies. He turned to Jongin with an admonishing look and a small grin. “Don’t invite misfortune into your own home, Senior Lieutenant.”

 

Jongin frowned at that and he retorted bitterly, “I don’t have a home anyway.” He played around the bandage and he was displeased to find that he could not slip his finger in between, much less two of them. He continued, “The war took away my home. Even the ones whom I thought could be mine, the war stole from it all from me. Now, we’re both here in the middle of Seoul, killing men left and right without remorse or reason.” 

 

With a scoff, Jongin looked at the doctor’s face—older, for sure, despite the softness of his cheeks from being well fed compared to the likes of Jongin—to search his features for a crack in his cheerful façade. Finding none but he was too far gone out to care, when he had already started seeing fading colors behind his eyelids, he exhaled, imitating the structure of Minseok’s sentence and even the tone of his voice—curious, self deprecating, pitiful. Jongin had already mastered three out of three. “We’re nothing more than animals during war time, aren’t we, Doctor Kim Minseok?”

 

The male looked startled at that, what with the widening of his almond shaped eyes. He fiddled with one of his belt hoops as he shook his head. The twist of his mouth looked like agreement, to Jongin. Instead of answering the non question, the doctor turned his back and asked, “Are you okay to receive visitors?”

 

Jongin shrugged and the bed groaned with his movement. He squirmed around, pressing his upper back against the metal railings of the frame that were pushed against the plastered wall.  They dug through his skin and into his bones with a dull ache. He said, “Depends on who they are.”

 

Doctor Kim was capping some of the glass bottles that were placed on top of a tray. The trash can beside the table was filled with to the brim with cotton balls soaked in red and brown. The smell of antiseptic wafted inside Jongin’s nose, hitting him in full force. He blinked as he came to in small lucid moments, finally hearing the din outside the curtained space he was confined in.

 

The other man smiled at him, commenting idly, “Finally quiet?”

 

Jongin dipped his head to the side and he was starting to feel the fatigue of the day. He was not even sure what day it was. His nerves buzzed and the rumblings of anxiety rolled in his gut. Now that he could think more clearly, he croaked out, “What date is it today?”

 

“27th of June, 1950,” Doctor Kim answered surely. He was probably used to this—soldiers lost inside their heads, asking for the date lest they had missed a day or a week or only an hour. “It’s only been few minutes past twenty-two hundred, Senior Lieutenant.” He threw away a wad of bandages and Jongin figured the man had just finished dressing him again when he had finally woken. Either the injury was that bad or the quality of their supplies was shit.

 

“Oh,” the Doctor turned around, carrying the tray on his way out of the closed off space. “There was a Do Kyungsoo and a Kim Jongdae waiting to visit you. Should I let them inside?”

 

Jongin’s heart stuttered at the name and he barely managed a hitched, “Yes, please, Doctor Kim. Thanks.” He hoped the other male brushed the momentary snag on his voice as a reaction to a sudden burst of pain. 

 

Kim Minseok did not make a comment, thankfully, as he slid the curtains open. It rattled on the support beams as he remarked, “I’ll call them. Expect them to be here in a few minutes.”

 

The curtains closed with a definitive sound and Jongin breathed a smile, exhaled the pain of the gunshot wound on his side.

  
  


* * *

  
  


When the curtains were pulled aside, Kyungsoo and Jongdae spilled into the cramped space. Jongdae shut the three of them inside as Kyungsoo rushed near his bed, hastily pulling the low stool placed underneath. 

 

He plopped carelessly and fussed, asking, “Are you okay, Jongin? Doctor Kim said you were bleeding profusely and they had to take the bullet out before he sewed you shut.”

 

Jongin eyed Jongdae to the side, still standing with a grim face, and he curled his hands into fists beside him, willing them to stop reaching out for Kyungsoo when there was another person in the room. He replied, “Still in pain and groggy. I’ve had worse.”

 

Kyungsoo frowned at that and Jongin saw his right hand rest on top of the bed, fingers drumming on the thin cover. His nails were blunt and his hands were littered with shallow cuts. When Jongin blinked away the blurriness in his eyes, the light overhead hit Kyungsoo’s face and there was a cut on the man’s upper lip. There were bruises on his jaw and he was favoring his left side.

 

“Are you hurt?” He asked. Jongin’s hand itched to hold Kyungsoo’s cheek against the cup of his palm.

 

The other male flinched and he could see the way he shrunk in on himself, as if hiding his right side and turning it away from Jongin’s stare. Giving in, Jongin reached out one of his hand to grip Kyungsoo’s upper arm.

 

“Jongin!” Kyungsoo yelped. Jongdae took a step forward and Jongin withdrew his hand. Underneath his hands, he felt the telltale thickness of the gauze, wrapping around the skin. The fabric of Kyungsoo’s military garb did nothing to hide the way he felt the bandage.

 

“What happened to you?” Jongin asked in a terrible voice.

 

“Bullet graze,” Kyungsoo whispered. “Doctor Kim Minseok also tended to me but it’s not as bad as yours.”

 

“You’re hurt,” Jongin remarked, voice terrible and vengeful. Something dark coiled inside the pit of his stomach as he eyes the cuts and bruises on the man in front of him. Suddenly, it did not matter that, a few hours ago, he got a gunshot wound, from which blood was oozing from.

 

“I am,” Kyungsoo sighed. “I’m okay. I want to know if you are too. Jongdae said you lost consciousness.”

 

“Jongdae?” Jongin shot the man on the side of the room. He noticed that the other was gripping the curtains behind him, the twisting of the fabric was apparent from where he was. Kyungsoo was none the wiser and Jongdae gave him a short salute—wrong in every way, so that if he were to do it to anyone else outside of this room, he would be tied and dragged all over the barracks.

 

“Yes,” Kyungsoo answered. His eyebrows were furrowed and Jongin, once again helpless, poked the wrinkling skin with his index finger to smoothen it out. Jongdae averted his eyes and Jongin’s finger lingered from where it was. Kyungsoo leaned into the touch as much as he could. The older man added, “Jongdae found you bleeding all over the place before you fainted.”

 

“Scared the shit out of me, Senior Lieutenant Kim,” Jongdae drawled. 

 

Jongin noticed how different he was now. Gone was the teasing man that had trembled when he first called him. In his place, Jongdae was standing up straight, face stone cold and lips in a thin line. It had only been two or three days and yet—here he was, a different man. Almost a stranger. 

 

Jongdae lifted his eyebrows and a tiny bit of the old him, at least, the one that Jongin had known, seeped through to the surface. He joked wanly, “I had to get two other men to carry you back. We’re getting fucked and you strolled in all bloody with no ammo apart from the bullet in your side.”

 

Jongin returned the man’s words with a small grin, tipping his head upwards in silent acknowledgement. He said, “Thank you.”

 

“It was nothing,” Jongdae said and his eyes flickered towards Kyungsoo’s direction. Jongin caught the small stray glance and he imagined, wondered. His train of thought was interrupted when Kyungsoo himself turned back towards Jongdae's direction. Silence passed between the two of them until Jongdae said, “I have to go. I’m on mess duty today.”

 

When the curtains opened, Jongin could peek and he saw several more bodies lying outside. Somewhere on the floor over sewn burlap sacks. His bed creaked under his weight and Kyungsoo shuffled closer him when Jongdae pushed the curtains closed again.

 

Instantly, Jongin felt fingers enveloping his, warm and clammy. Kyungsoo raised it to his mouth and Jongin could not help but brush his knuckles over the man’s pink lips. The other male said, “I thought you were going to die, Jongin.” Kyungsoo’s voice was wet, low and accusing. 

 

Jongin’s heart clenched and a new emotion swelled inside him. He thought it could have been happiness—the different kind, the one that was born out of adversity. 

 

The older man added, murmuring against the skin on the back of Jongin’s hands that he was still holding near his mouth, “That scared me more than this war. I thought I was going to lose you this soon.”

 

“Sorry,” Jongin said but he was smiling. He was smiling from one ear to the other.

 

“Why are you grinning at me like that? Have you gone insane?” Kyungsoo snapped. His eyes were damp, and his eyelashes were clumped together. Jongin’s smile widened a bit and he bit his bottom lip, trying to curb the beginnings of victorious laughter from bubbling. He had an open wound just a while ago.

 

“You’re scared to lose me,” he said.

 

“I am,” Kyungsoo answered with a scowl.

 

“I am too,” Jongin admitted softly. “Sometimes it would make me feel bad. I’m more scared of losing you than everything that is this war put together.” His thumb kissed the corner of Kyungsoo’s mouth when he added, “I thought I was the only one.”

 

Kyungsoo caught both of his wrists and he pressed a kiss on each palm. The heat of his touch and the fan of his breath made Jongin warm all over, from his insides to the air of the makeshift room in the medical bay.

 

The man held his wrists tightly and he was sure, verily, that Kyungsoo could feel the way his pulse was reacting to the simple words and the simple touch. One breath, and Jongin was crumbling down.

 

“You’re not the only one, Jongin” said Kyungsoo. “‘ _ Only the dead were unafraid of wa _ r’, you said.” Kyungsoo placed another kiss on his right palm, as soft as his voice and as quiet as the bubble they had confined themselves into. “But only fools like us would be more scared of losing each other.”

 

“Fools,” Jongin repeated with a fond huff of laughter. His side protested and he grimaced. Kyungsoo rubbed circles on his protruding wrist bones. “We are, aren’t we?”

 

Kyungsoo chuckled at that and his cheeks went up, eyes in crescents. The pain in Jongin’s flank had subsided to something that could be ignored. “What did you just say?”

 

“I don’t know,” Jongin sighed, contented. “How long can you stay here?”

 

“A few more minutes,” Kyungsoo replied. “Why?”

 

“Kiss me,” Jongin said. “Show me how afraid you are of losing me, Kyungsoo.”

 

There was a sharp intake of air and it whistled amidst the silence of the cramped space. Outside, Jongin heard someone cry. Here, nothing existed but the two of them. 

 

Kyungsoo stood up slowly and the stool he had been sitting on scraped the cemented floor with a high whine. Jongin sat higher—all thoughts of reopening his wound flying out of his head. He rested his back against the wall, metal rails digging into the breadth of it. The man sat beside him gingerly, carefully putting his weight on top of the volatile bed frame. It creaked underneath him and he flinched. Jongin waited with bated breath.

 

Like summer, Kyungsoo’s lips made contact with his in a sudden rush of warmth. With reckless abandon, the man kissed him forcefully. Their noses bumped and their teeth clattered together. It was everything that something stolen, something forbidden, was. 

 

Jongin returned the gesture with much fervor even if he was trying his best to keep still and not move. Kyungsoo was not touching him, except for the way his hand was curled against his. The side with the wound protested when Kyungsoo ripped a loud moan from him.

 

Kyungsoo slowed down and time bled away as the two of them locked their lips and tangled their tongues. Jongin could taste the blood on the cut that was on Kyungsoo’s mouth. He made his fingers dance on the skin of Kyungsoo’s hand, crawling upwards on the man’s forearm.

 

When they parted, Kyungsoo was flushed and Jongin was sure that he was too. The curtains remained undisturbed with their gentle fluttering. 

 

“I have to go,” Kyungsoo breathed out. His lips were red and slick. Jongin leaned forward to place another peck, stealing like the thief that he was.

 

“Jongin,” the older man exhaled. He went back to sitting up, careful once more since he was feeling the wound twinge. Jongin figured it was not as bad because China had felt worse than this. He had three scars that had felt closer to death than this one. Kyungsoo continued after some time, “Rest well.”

 

Jongin gave the man a nod and he answered, “Be careful, darling.”

 

Kyungsoo peeked one last time before he slid the curtains closed and Jongin could see the small smile that was for him, for them. His heart soared as, once again, the war remained on the edges of his consciousness—feeling like everything was a dream, and Do Kyungsoo was the only real thing he knew. That if he woke up, it could have been in 1950 or 2024, and the man would still be where he was.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Barely two minutes after Kyungsoo had disappeared, Doctor Kim Minseok had entered again. His face was blank when he said, “Recovery period is expected to be five to seven days. I’d give you the go to walk around and supervise. Lieutenant Oh was complaining about your paper work, Senior Lieutenant Kim.”

 

Jongin had given the physician a nod and a short, “Thanks.”

 

Doctor Kim looked at him and he felt the older male’s eyes boring holes into his body like he could read the most intimate parts of himself. Instinctively, he squared his shoulders and raised his chin higher. The man continued to stare and Jongin asked, voice stern and icy, “What is it, Dr. Kim?”

 

“I heard you and Do Kyungsoo,” the man answered simply. “Next time, you might want to keep those things in private when you’re not risking someone walking in on your— _ affairs— _ without warning.”

 

Jongin felt ice being poured into his veins at the doctor’s statement. His heart started to pound and his fingers twitched at his side. He curled them into fists and his mind raced a mile a second, trying to think and not panic at the same time. He was doing a piss poor job at it as thoughts started overflowing, spilling over the brim and into his index finger, trigger happy and itching for his Nagant. Kim Minseok’s face did not look like he would believe a word of Jongin’s denial.

 

“Will you tell anyone?” He said. His voice did not betray the fear that had come over him—for himself, for Kyungsoo, and for the two of them. No matter what, Jongin intended to make good of his promise.  _ Anyone but Kyungsoo _ . Everyone else could be collateral damage.

 

“No,” the doctor shrugged.

 

The air was knocked out of Jongin’s lungs just as fast but his shoulders did not relax. His stomach churned uncomfortably but he held himself still. “Why?”

 

The physician did not answer and, instead, he went to take out a few pills and a glass of water. He handed it to Jongin and he dutifully drank. It went down easy, but the line it made down his throat was bitter.

 

He asked again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “Why did you not tell on us?”

 

Jongin knew that one word from the doctor would have him and Kyungsoo punished, imprisoned and starved until they were begging. It would be a slow and painful death. Jongin hoped that, if it came down to it, and he was not able to make sure Kyungsoo was safe and they were to be put under judgment, that they gave it with two bullets to the chest—quick and painless.

 

“They would kill the both of you,” he answered.

 

“And what is it to you if we die?” Jongin countered, glaring at the male.

 

Doctor Kim gave him a small smile and Jongin thought it looked a little bit like condolence, and maybe, to his surprise, shared experience.

 

“We’re short on good men, Senior Lieutenant Kim.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


**_June 28, 1950_ **

 

When they marched into the capital, Seoul was already in shambles. Thousands of men and women were escaping down south, carrying on their backs their  _ jigaes,  _ which they had filled with as much of their possessions as they could. Children were clutching the legs of their mothers and the shrill cries of infants broke the sounds of battle from the two opposing sides as they were carried on the bosoms of women, tied with dirty strips of cloth.

 

There were farmers herding cows and men with their knapsacks. Rice was spilling onto the road alongside the grimy blood and tears salting the earth and the cries of the people filling the air. Women were walking in a straight line; their heads held high despite the weight on their narrow shoulders. 

 

When they had stormed the city, Jongin had seen the backs of the citizens’ hanboks, brown and black, before he made out the image of men marching towards them in their combat gear, rifles in their hands and side pistols in their holsters.

 

The soldiers went north as the people went south.

 

The entire regiment, and the division it had belonged to, took Seoul like it was a morsel being clutched by a child. Tanks thundered across cemented roads and the mountainous terrains, surrounding the area. Their heavy vehicles destroyed the rice paddies as sweat bulleted down their necks to their backs and torsos, beading on their foreheads and smearing the dirt and the blood.

 

Jongin remembered being repositioned behind the 17-pounder with Sehun as the both of them loaded the cannon with heavy ammunition, ignoring Doctor Kim’s stern warning for Jongin to refrain from heavy lifting.

 

Neither him nor Sehun knew whom they had hit but they could see where they had because of the thick cloud following the explosion. Beside him, Kyungsoo was biting his lip, as him and Baekhyun did the same.

 

He stole looks, trying to make sure Kyungsoo was still breathing a few meters behind the makeshift trench they had created. The older man had long since shed off the top of his uniform—imitating practically everyone else. Jongin had seen the man’s ribs sticking out, and the sharp relief of his clavicles, before Sehun had blasted another group of hostiles.

 

The two of them breathed at first, lying low on the soil. Jongin’s head was angled to the side and he saw Kyungsoo and Baekhyun were doing the same. Baekhyun was wiping off his sweat as he chattered on beside Kyungsoo—something nonsensical, probably, to take their minds off the sounds of death and military punishments. He saw Kyungsoo give Baekhyun a terse smile, curt and polite, but there was a hint of gratefulness there too. 

 

“I didn’t realize they became friends,” Jongin said. He heaved a long breath, careful. His bandaged torso gave a twinge but he figured he was okay, seeing as he had not bled to death yet.

 

“It kind of just happened out of the blue,” Sehun shrugged. He was fiddling with the communication device. 

 

Jongin knew that Lieutenant Oh was a jack of all trades, working the radio and writing in shorthand. Sometimes, he suspected that Sehun did not need a pen and a paper to write down what he had to remember. 

 

As Jongin averted his eyes to the pair beside them, the younger soldier added, “You know how Byun is. Six hours in and he’s not letting Do Kyungsoo go.”

 

Jongin could see that but before he could reply, the radio on the ground buzzed to life. Sehun was quick to pick it up. The static was audible before it settled down into a loud hum. Jongin could not hear the message from the noises that were resounding outside their shallow cover.

 

On both their sides, the men stopped, as much as they were able to.

 

Jongin watched as Sehun nodded, face grim. He stopped and handed Jongin the device, said, “Senior Lieutenant Kim, a word for you.”

 

Sehun did not comment when Jongin’s hand trembled from the fatigue that was settling in after they had stopped, or from the hunger or from the vibrations of the war that was going on around them. For that, he was thankful.

 

“Senior Lieutenant Kim Jongin on the comms. Over.” He heard nothing, at first, before the distorted voice of Major Gwak filtered through the earpiece.

 

“They bombed the bridges on Han River and we got the nod that dictator Rhee had fled from the capital.” There was triumph under the weary voice of the major. He could hear loud bangs on both their ends. “Colonel Jo wants Seoul before the day ends. Do that and you’ll see yourself captain, Senior Lieutenant Kim. Over.”

 

The static punctuated the message and the silence in his ear was deafening. He turned the communications device to Sehun and the man’s eyebrows rose. Jongin’s back hit the metal their artillery was mounted on. He could feel the younger soldier’s eyes on him but Jongin only had his gaze trained on Kyungsoo, several feet away. The distance was considerable amidst the floating dust and the burning country.

 

He said to Sehun, “Scorch the earth. The government abandoned Seoul and their soldiers.”

 

Lieutenant Oh grinned at that, though it was cold and sardonic. He called out a loud “Fire!” that had their line whooping in simultaneous screams—blending into the sounds of the loud bombings.

 

Jongin breathed the smell of the battlefield, gunpowder and dirt, as his banged torso was pressed down by the weight of the gauze and the bandage. To curb the beginnings of the stinging ache, he took a swig of the rice wine they had found left behind in a storage house near where they were positioned.

 

The taste was sweet on his tongue as Jongin closed his eyes, killing men and women and children, killing dreams and freedom.

  
  


* * *

  
  


In an hour and a half, Seoul fell. 

 

In two hours, Jongin was Captain Kim of the 105th Armored Division—one braided line of red and four small stars in gleaming silver that were paid by hundreds of thousands of lives.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The days in Seoul, post occupation, bled into one another as Jongin roamed the streets with his platoon, his rank fresh on his shoulders with the additional weight of the entire company that Major Gwak—now Lieutenant Colonel—had left to him, heavy on his back. Sehun took his abandoned post and the promotion looked good on him, what with his face an image of practiced stoicism and his posture nicely rigid.

 

Being a captain meant that Jongin was responsible for more lives—not just the men in his platoon. Now, he had to command an entire company of more or less three hundred men. The paper work alone was atrocious and Sehun, like always, had been delegated the task of playing second fiddle to his position. Kyungsoo, too.

 

Jongin had found out that being the captain of an entire company afforded him some privileges that he had previously did not think of. For one, even if everyone had insisted and fronted for fair distribution of rations, Jongin would find his supply with an extra soap or two cigarettes. In the mess hall, the ones serving food would look at him, at the stars on his shoulders, and there’d be an extra spoon of kimchi or an extra piece of dried fish on his plate.

 

He knew it before but it was reaffirming and humbling—the realization that Jongin was neither an honest man nor a fair one. He took the extras he was given and he had traded the cigarettes for some candy that he would slip into Kyungsoo’s pack. When Baekhyun had come in late for dinner and there was no fish remaining for him, Jongin handed him the extra that a student officer had placed on his serving tray with shaking fingers. 

 

Jongin took care of his own first.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Yet, war remained to be the worst thing that could ever happen to a person and to a nation—on either side, on both sides.

 

Gwak had given Jongin the directive to gather his own men to drag the remainder of what the Lieutenant Colonel had called enemies of the people to Korea. Along the poorer areas of Seoul, they had found men and women who were more than willing to direct them to the larger homes  belonging to the members of Rhee’s crumbling regime. They had the names of the Japanese collaborators along those who were officers of the National Police.

 

Jongin had led one of the units personally. With one hand on his gun and one of his eyes shut and both his ears deaf to their pleas, he had put some to jail and the others were given the capital punishment after a fake trial

 

On a balmy morning, before the sun was high up, Jongin had joined Kyungsoo’s unit composed of two other men, bringing them to a total of four. The address on the list he had been handed was around the university area downtown, so far that they had to pull out one of the jeeps and drive.

 

The group’s junior lieutenant, Im Kyusik, a twenty-one-year-old man who had enlisted a year ago, drove the vehicle along the bumpy roads of war torn Seoul. Jongin had seated himself beside Kyungsoo and their thighs barely brushed. The other member of the group, Lee Youngjae, was in front of the jeep, beside Im.

 

If Lee had shot the two of them a look as Jongin clambered onto the back of the jeep with a watchful hand on Kyungsoo’s back after the older male had almost face planted, then the soldier did not say anything. Jongin figured it was the characteristic that was being cultivated between puppet men like them—hear no evil, see no evil, and speak no evil. Everything could be swept under the rug unless there was definite proof and things like what Jongin had done could be brushed off as him being an overly generous commanding officer.

 

When the rumble of the jeep ate away the noises from the streets they were passing through, Jongin turned to Kyungsoo, careful to maintain a distance that could still be considered proprietary. He asked, “Are you ready?”

 

Kyungsoo knew what they had to do and had been briefed properly like any usual military operation. The older man nodded and he sighed, letting out a long stream of air, “As ready as I can be.” The last syllable curled around the end as Kyungsoo took the sound away, keeping it underneath his tongue. Their whispers were drowned out by the engine.

 

In a few minutes, Im said, “We’re almost there, Captain.”

 

Jongin straightened up as they parked two blocks from the university. In front, there was large building that looked eerily like a dormitory. He felt dread build up in his stomach as it travelled up to his chest with its heavy weight and the coiling tendrils of ice cold realization.

 

The three-story building was a small shared housing unit with chipping paint that was, surprisingly enough, still standing with full windows and a large wooden entrance. Lee and Im got down from the vehicle, carrying a coil of rope. Kyungsoo’s face was impassive but he was averting his gaze from the length of braided straw that the other two soldiers were carrying. Jongin looked ahead.

 

When he nodded at the person manning the building, they were instantly lead to one of the larger shared units in the second floor. He rapped on the door twice and the wood of it was hollow under the beat of his knockin. The door opened to a smiling face that quickly turned into wide eyes. The boy’s features drained of all color and he attempted to slam the door shut into Jongin’s face.

 

He held the door firmly with a hand and Jongin, with the calm and the grace of a seasoned killer, said, “Kim Jae Hyun, Seung Jeong Woon, Ya Dong Shin, Ya Dal Hwa, Nang Oh Joong, and Dae Joon Young, you’re all under arrest for crimes against the North Korean government—inciting rebellion and treason to the state.”

 

The boy paled at that and he stuttered, voice breaking, “I—we haven’t done anything wrong!”

 

“We’re at liberty to search your dormitory,” Jongin recited, waving around the list he brought with him. The boy stiffened and Jongin felt the other’s weight being thrown into the door to keep them locked outside. 

 

“You can’t search us without proper warrant,” the boy exclaimed.

 

There was absolute quiet in the hall before Jongin growled, “I have a warrant from the North Korean People’s Army. We’re ordered to search you’re residence. Open the door before the charges against your group go up in number.”

 

The boy was visibly, and sufficiently, threatened. With trembling hands, he swung the door open and let them inside. Kyungsoo, Im, and Lee went ahead and the three of them started going through the cabinets and the drawers. Five other boys, aside from the one who had opened the door were huddled in one corner of the room. All of them were shaking, looking far too young. Jongin leaned against the door jamb, his cutting figure taking up the space and his presence enveloping the room with tension.

 

“I found something, Captain Kim,” Im said. He was crouched on the floor, underneath the thin metals of the uniform bed frames. He had peeled away one of the floor boards and Jongin heard someone squeak.

 

Im handed him a small shoebox and Jongin perused the contents—documents and letters, translations of made up codes, tapped information from unknown sources that should be controversial, samples of propaganda fliers. All were incriminating.

 

“Here’s some more,” Lee drawled, pulling out an envelope from one of the wooden chests that was pushed against the wall. Someone sobbed but Jongin did not pay them any mind. Lee handed him more stacks of loose leaf papers with ink bleeding through, more anti-communist propaganda and sugarcoated right wing sentiments interspersed with pro-Rhee political rhetoric.

 

Kyungsoo also stood up and he handed Jongin three handguns that were loaded, judging from the weight of them in his hands.

 

Jongin nodded at Lee and Im as he pushed the shoe box and the papers alongside the guns to Kyungsoo’s arms. The man cradled them but his lips were already quivering. Jongin looked away, knew he could not bear to stare at Kyungsoo’s face when the other man looked as heart broken like that.

 

He said, “Tie the six of them up and bring them outside. If found guilty, the punishment for treason is death.”

 

Lee and Im were quick in their movements and their pocket knives sliced through the thick ropes in ragged strokes. They wound the rope around each of the boys tightly before they took a longer one, threading the ropes through the six captives and binding them.

 

“You can’t do this!” One of the boys, face red and stained with tears, complained hoarsely. “We’ve not been given proper trial. We can’t be charged with treason just because of a box one of your puppet soldiers is carrying!”

 

Jongin shot the boy a glare and Im backhanded him. He moaned with pain but his eyes were alight with fear. Jongin challenged the stare as his eyebrows rose up to his hairline. The boy averted his eyes, looking downwards, like his five other companions.

 

Lee and Im dragged the six boys down the stairs. It took longer, with all of them being tied together, almost tripping once and falling down. Jongin was at the back and Kyungsoo was shuffling behind him with the evidence they had found.

 

When they came out of the dormitory, there were people on the streets looking at the commotion. Jongin hustled the movements with a push to the boy at the rear of the queue. The man stumbled but he walked forward.

 

Suddenly, a clear voice rang through the murmurs of the bystanders. “You cannot try us for treason when we have never been part of your state! It is not treason when we have not sworn allegiance to North Korea.”

 

Jongin’s chest tightened. He knew he had heard that one before, somewhere. His eyes slid towards Kyungsoo for a second and found the man looking impassive and underneath the façade, horrified.

 

“Shut up!” Im hissed, shoving the person in the middle. It was the one who had opened the door awhile ago.

 

Another spoke up, loud and clear amidst the steadily rising murmurs of the people around them. “This is unlawful! We’re being taken against our will, tied up, like pigs to slaughter! The puppet soldiers are being ordered to take down the enemies of the people when all along it was them posing threats to our safety.” 

 

The boy spat on the ground and Jongin’s heart thundered in his ear. He knew what he had to do yet, his palms were clammy and his voice barely held when he ordered, “Stop!”

 

Im and Lee did. The sound of Kyungsoo’s boots stopped behind before he shuffled closer so they were standing side-by-side. Jongin inhaled, said, “Hold the ropes and line them straight.”

 

Jongin took out his Nagant from his holster and he clicked the lock out of place. The sound was drowned out by the gasps of the onlookers. One of the boys turned around and, upon seeing the gun on Jongin’s person, started squirming around and moving his feet. The rest had glanced at him too and the six of them were trashing around.

 

Im’s hold loosened and one took a step alongside the other. The six of them scrambled to run but the ropes holding them together were tight. They stumbled to the ground and Jongin watched as they tried crawling on their hands and knees. Their skin was getting scraped and he could see redness from where the rope had burned into their bare arms. 

 

He turned to look at Kyungsoo and he said softly, “Help them up, Kyungsoo. Hold the rope tight and stay on the side.”

 

The older man trembled at the order but he set the box he was holding on the floor. It clattered and some of the loose papers flew with the sudden breeze. Jongin shivered inwardly but he maintained the façade of who Captain Kim Jongin was supposed to be.

 

His index finger remained straight on the length of the barrel. The Nagant had a full chamber, seven bullets inside the cartridges of the cylinder.

 

Kyungsoo walked to the six, standing them up with the help of Im and Lee. He held the end of the rope on Lee’s side and Jongin said, “Don’t let them move too much.”

 

“No!” 

 

“Please don’t!”

 

“We’ll go with you—”

 

“I don’t want to die I don’t want to die I don’t wa—”

 

“I’m only eighteen years old please don’t kill me plea—”

 

“I want to see my family and my—”

 

“Turn them around,” Jongin ordered. It would be easier for them—quick and painless—but harder for himself.

 

Lee and Im kicked the boys until they had faced Jongin. He looked each of them in the eyes and their faces were wet with tears and snot. Their lips were quivering and their throats were all tight. One of them had pissed their pants and was still scrambling away while the one beside him was mumbling a goodbye that sounded like poetry. Another had blood trailing down from moving against the rough braid of the tight knot around his body. Two of them had their head bowed. One had his head held high.

 

Jongin raised his gun, shoulders half relaxed and stance wide. He could see, from where he was standing, that Kyungsoo had closed his eyes. He clicked his tongue and tilted his head to the side.

 

Screams from the six men rang in the quiet of the air. Jongin’s index finger curled on the trigger, gunmetal against warm skin. Jongin held his breath and aimed. Gunshots exploded as what seemed like thousands of screams erupted in the air. Jongin could see, from his periphery, or maybe he was already hallucinating—memories folding over one another as his chest became progressively tighter and heavier. He pulled once, twice, until the muzzle of his gun was oozing with smoke and his palm was burning with the heat of the revolver.

 

By the time he was done, the cement was wet and painted with bright red. The cylinder of his gun only had one remaining bullet—7.62 mm slug embedded in the flesh of the boy’s backs. They were lodged deep in the center of each chest.

 

Jongin only needed one bullet each. Familiarity bred to him accuracy and precision. When he lowered his gun, a tear slipped from Kyungsoo’s eyes and he could see the older man’s chest heaving up and down.

 

He holstered the warm gun, inhaling saltpeter from his fingertips. The smell of blood smeared all over the list of sins he had committed, six more lines on the tally he had long forgotten the count of.

  
  


* * *

  
  


When they reached the base they had established in Seoul, Kyungsoo was quick to brush Jongin away as he walked off somewhere. Jongin wanted to follow the older man but he felt like the seams tying him together would burst any moment, spilling his guts and his stuffing all over the concrete floor.

 

He escaped to the sanctuary of his tiny bedroom—another privilege his rank had given him. He could barely fit on the narrow bed and when he moved at night because of his nightmares—memories, really—it would creak under his weight in whining protests.

 

More often than not, Jongin would just lie on the floor with his blanket and a pillow as he tried to think of the old quilted mattress back in Kyungsoo’s village and the smell of the gas lamp as orange light flickered and danced to the sound of the chirping cicadas and the nighttime hymn.

 

This time, he fell on the floor, back against the bed frame and legs stretched out in front of him. His hand fumbled as he took the entire holster off, throwing the leather behind him. The gun thumped against the wall but Jongin could care less when his heart was beating like it was about to break, or burst out of his own chest cavity.

 

His fingers were shaking and so were his hands as his breathing turned ragged quickly. Jongin placed both of his hands against his heart, pressing down firmly as if the action could curb the rapidly speeding heartbeats. Jongin felt like he was about to combust, feeling hot and cold at the same time and he was sure he was shivering. His sweat felt cold against his blazing skin as he curled his legs and pulled himself into a tight ball.

 

The screams of the boys echoed in the silence of his bedroom as he remembered their faces, looking entirely too young to die at eighteen years old. Jongin wondered if they had things to pass to their university professors before he had unceremoniously taken their lives in front of a large audience gasping in fear and clutching their clothes close to their body as if they would shield them from the monster that was he.

 

Jongin did not know how long had passed but he had yet to calm his fast breathing down. He continued taking shallow breaths of air, an inhale and an exhale, repeated even if they were barely reaching his lungs. The air inside the room was thick and he felt like he was suffocating.

 

He released a noise that was low in his throat as he undid the top buttons of his shirt. His nails caught on his skin with how clumsy he was being and he scratched his neck. The pain was grounding and Jongin ran them over again. The length of it stretched from the underside of his jaw down to his jugular, below the hollow of his throat where his collar bones had almost met. Pink lines formed on his skin and Jongin whimpered at the sensation. His breathing had yet to return to normal and his eyes were extremely blurry.

 

Jongin was not seeing anything except those six faces begging for their lives, six faces that he had killed in less than a minute without a second thought, or a breath of fresh air. He had killed six boys not even the age of twenty if the profiles that were given to him from counterintelligence were accurate.

 

He had killed six boys who only wanted to live, who had scrambled to their knees and screamed at him to stop. Jongin drew blood as he felt wetness on his cheeks.

 

The door banged and suddenly, he felt fingers wrapping on his wrists, pulling it away from where he had been abusing his neck with scratches. He gave a whimper as he pushed away whoever had invaded his personal space with a growl.

 

“Jongin,” the person said and the sound had slowly brought him back to clarity. His vision cleared, just a bit, as he took in Kyungsoo.

 

The older man was sitting on the floor in front of him, sprawled from where Jongin had pushed him away. Jongin felt cold as he eyed his hands—useless, only good for one thing and that was inflicting pain, useless, useless, monster, monster, mons—

 

“No,” Kyungsoo cried out. He crawled towards Jongin, sitting down on his calves and balancing himself. His eyes were damp and his lashed looked darker than ever.

 

“Why would someone like you be with someone like me?” Jongin wondered.

 

Kyungsoo made a broken sound as he gripped Jongin’s hand. There was distance between them that allowed Jongin to breathe. The other male answered, “Because I want to. I’m with you because I want to be, Jongin.”

 

Jongin felt the dam collaps underneath the pressure of the day. The small fissure grew in size before water overflowed. He took a steady breath before he hiccuped as sobs began to wrack his body. Kyungsoo did not do anything except hold his hand, never letting go as he rubbed soothingly on his wrist, over his rabbiting pulse. 

 

He allowed the tears to fall down like torrential summertime rains. His chest constricted, it was being pressed down with something heavy. With his tears came the loosening of his chest and the slow evaporation of the extra weight until Jongin could breathe again even though every inhale was torture and every gulp of oxygen set his lungs ablaze.

 

A distant part of his brain recognized the déjà vu.

 

“Kyungsoo,” he whispered wetly once he could speak again. “Kyungsoo.”

 

“I’m here,” the other man answered. “I’m here, sweetheart.”

 

Jongin sighed in relief when he could see Kyungsoo in sharp contrast. The man was smiling at him even if tears had accumulated in the corners of his pretty eyes. 

 

“Kyungsoo,” he said again—like it was the only thing he knew how to utter. The man nodded as he shuffled closer. “I’m a monster, darling. I killed six boys today when they begged for their lives.”

 

The older man flinched at that and he did not answer. Jongin knew why—there was no answer when he had spoken nothing but the truth.

 

His hands trembled in Kyungsoo’s hold and the male tried to curb the tremors by warming them up against his. He rubbed circles and drew idle patterns with every movement of the tips of his own fingers against his. Jongin felt cold all over except his hands. 

 

He said, “These hands killed those boys.” Jongin bowed his head. “Sometimes. Sometimes I feel like I’m only useful for killing. Like I’m only alive for that purpose.”

 

He heard Kyungsoo make a terrible sound, low and pathetic even to his ear. Jongin did not want the other man to sound like that. The war had truly taken something so fundamental from the both of them.

 

From Kyungsoo, it had taken away the man’s innocence.

 

From Jongin, it had taken away Kyungsoo.

 

He felt fingers on his jaw as Kyungsoo tipped his head upwards, harsh and borderline angry. His eyes were boring holes into Jongin’s face. “Don’t ever say that, Jongin.” The older male gripped his jaw as he leaned in, whispering, “You’re more than what all those wars have made you.”

 

“Your hands are made for more than killing.” The older man’s fingers crawled near his, as if asking for permission. “Your hands have tilled the farm, have planted seeds into the soil. Your hands have cut up vegetables and have washed dirty clothes and have cleaned wooden floors. Your hands have apologized when you have hurt someone by accident and your hands have saved Uncle Shim from bullies—do you remember that? When we went to the market?”

 

Jongin nodded, replied, “You gave me candies. I remembered how good it tasted. Sweet and citrus-y. It felt like summer against my tongue.”

 

Kyungsoo gave a short chuckle that reverberated in Jongin’s chest. The other man took his hands again and he linked their fingers together. They slipped in the spaces with how clammy both are. Jongin’s fingers filled the gaps in between Kyungsoo’s smaller ones. “Your hands hold my hands like this and they fill the empty spaces with things that I lack.”

 

Jongin sobbed as he tried to wrench his hands away. Kyungsoo held on tighter, almost bruisingly. He brought their hands to his mouth, letting go so he could hold Jongin’s firmly, as he kissed each of his knuckles carefully. “Your hands are made to be kissed. From the tip—” Kyungsoo gave one to each, brushing his lips. “—to the wrist.” His mouth ghosted on the skin and Kyungsoo’s nose trailed lightly against Jongin’s palm, right one first. He kissed the pulsating beats there twice before doing the same thing to the other.

 

Jongin shook because of the man’s movements and his heart was in his throat.

 

Kyungsoo pushed himself closer after he had eyed Jongin’s face for any sign that he would be pushed away—as if Jongin could. As if Jongin was not completely under the mercy of this beautiful person. He threaded Jongin’s fingers against his once more before he made it envelope him. Jongin, like he had been doing this his entire life, brought Kyungsoo closer. Kyungsoo let go and he wrapped his arms around Jongin’s neck as he kneeled in front of the other male. Jongin’s hand tightened from where they were perched above the swell of Kyungsoo’s behind.

 

“Your hands—” Kyungsoo murmured on top of Jongin’s head. For once, the older man was taller than him. He gave a sigh and a kiss on Jongin’s temple, leaning down. “How can you say your hands are only good for killing when you can hug me like this? Warm me up like this?”

 

Kyungsoo sank low so that they were at eye level and he smiled at Jongin—a slow thing that was beautiful. It reminded Jongin of all the good things that was, that he had, even if the bad ones were rapidly drowning him. Instead of pain, Kyungsoo’s heart-shaped grin ground him to the present. The older man remarked, soft and almost cooing, “How can you think your hands as nothing more than killers when these were the same hands that made love to me?”

 

Jongin cried low as he crashed their lips together. It was messy and hurried and it ended too soon. Kyungsoo broke him and undid him before he slowly reworked him to pieces, remaking and recreating him. 

 

He said, “I’m tired.”

 

“Do you want to sleep?”

 

“Yes,” Jongin sighed.

 

“Then sleep.” Kyungsoo pushed himself before crawling beside Jongin. The older male took his head, bringing it down to his lap. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

 

Jongin closed his eyes to the feeling of fingers carding through his hair. He breathed in Kyungsoo’s scent, enjoying the summer confined within the walls of his small room.

  
  


* * *

  
  


When he woke up, Kyungsoo’s fingers were still moving against the strands of his hair. Jongin’s throat was scratchy and his eyes felt swollen. The nightmares did not come and, instead, Jongin could remember chasing warmth and sunshine.

 

He looked up and Kyungsoo was staring down at him with a fond smile—beautiful, beautiful, beautiful were all he could chant in his head. The older male blinked at him before his lips stretched even wider. Jongin wondered if the warmth and the sunshine were really just a dream when Kyungsoo looked like this, felt like this.

 

He asked, “How long have I been sleeping?”

 

The man shrugged and answered, “I’m not entirely sure. Short enough that no one came to check on us—you—and call you for dinner, that’s for sure.”

 

Jongin sighed as he sat up. The fatigue from the day had added additional weight on his already slumping back. It was going to be harder to keep posture when, on top of more or less 300 alive men, he carried on his person the deaths he had caused—the lives he had taken.

 

Only the tips of their fingers were touching, when Jongin asked once more, “Are we strangers now, Kyungsoo?”

 

There was silence before the shy hand that was barely touching his enveloped the skin on the back of his hand. 

 

Kyungsoo said, “No, we’re not, Jongin.”

  
  
  



	7. here is the deepest secret that nobody knows,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one, I'm sorry, is unbeta-ed. We're almost at the end and thank you for reading.

The thing about the peninsula, Jongin had come to learn throughout the war, was that it was small. The entirety of Korea spanned a land mass that stretched out to the sea, sewn on the edges of China. It seemed that, in the blink of an eye, they could be anywhere, everywhere, and then, nowhere at all.

 

The air remained dry and it felt like an entire lifetime had passed after the outbreak of gunshots along the borders of Ongjin and the short skirmish in one of the larger villages in Haeju. Time seemed to play a trick on everyone else, Jongin thought, as the ticks of his watch moved at a snail’s pace. Barely a month, numbered days of abandonment and hot trenches, had bled through the years of Jongin’s life, eating away his remaining sanity as he drifted from one morning to the next. He cleaned his gun and he fired his bullets and he ate and he slept and he, maybe, woke up. 

 

Kyungsoo and he had stuck like glue under the smoke and the fire. Jongin would steal away the man the way the war had stolen Kyungsoo from him—sudden and out of the blue, reckless and dangerous. They would shuffle inside his tiny room inside the requisitioned base and Jongin would pull down the mattress from his bed on to the floor. It was too small for the both of them but he could rarely sleep anyway so Kyungsoo would lie on the soft cushion while Jongin slept on the floor with a blanket under his back and the older man’s hand in his.

 

War seemed to have been a stalemate, at least for now. He supposed it was the nicest scenario—some of the soldiers were able to roam around Seoul and buy relief, some were writing letters to their families. Jongin thought it was silly at first but when he had passed by a small store with walls of peeling paint and a sign board that was burnt at the corner, he entered and came out with lighter pockets and several papers alongside a pack containing twelve envelopes.

 

He thought he could write Kyungsoo letters, could tell the man what he was imagining or wondering, could share all the things that were left unspoken between the two of them—from Haeju, to Gyeonggi Province, to Seoul—an entire universe of them. 

 

Jongin would keep them inside the envelopes and, when the time had come, the letters would die with him. He would carry them to the ashes, he knew—memorial record to the graveyard.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_July 7, 1950_

 

_Kyungsoo,_

 

_After buying a pack of envelopes today, I have only realized how small each one of them is. You see, I’ve never received a single one throughout my life._

 

_Have you gotten one, my darling? Or will I be the first one to give a letter to you?_

 

_The thought sends me happiness if I were your first so indulge me a little._

 

_I do not know how to write myself and I’m sorry if I sound stilted and weird. Or formal. All the years of doing military paper work are hard to unlearn. I figure it will come with practice though, like most things in life._

 

_When I brought out the fresh sheet of paper and sat down on the rickety chair, the one in my room where I had you, I thought hard about what to tell. I have a lot of secrets and a lot of stories but they’re mostly miserable, the kind that people don’t want to hear. And by God, we have enough of that—misery—to last us both a lifetime and then some._

 

_So I decided I would write you love stories, Kyungsoo, rather than eulogies._

 

_This is the first of them._

 

_Sincerely,_

_Jongin_

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**_July 10, 1950_ **

 

Jongin’s steps were heavy against the concrete of the military base. Beside him, Sehun strode with command, tall with his chin raised high. The wind ruffled both of their hair but neither of them were stopping even if some privates were giving them rigid salutes. Jongin had barely nodded his head as he kept his eyes straight. His arms went opposite his legs; his spine was straight.

 

Jongin could feel the remaining twinges of the bullet wound on his torso, sewn shut and bandaged tight. Every time it gave a particularly painful protest, he would grit his teeth as sweat beaded on his temple. Discreetly, he would wipe it down, schooling his features in the characteristically stoic image his face had adopted during war time.

 

The two of them rushed towards one of the meeting rooms on the west wing of the building where they were now and his heart thudded in his chest in time with his foot steps. He wondered if Sehun was feeling the same thing—the man had gone quiet after they met up with Lieutenant Colonel Gwak. The older soldier’s voice had rung inside Jongin’s head, had been ringing still, as the commands echoed in the recesses of his brain.

 

When they entered the room, there was instant silence. The assembled soldiers were suddenly dead quiet and most of them straightened out their postures, spine pinned on the back of their chairs. In one corner, Jongin could see Kyungsoo sitting down beside an empty chair. Jongin knew that the older man was helping Sehun with logistics, keeping tabs of meetings and supplies, minor military counts when everyone was otherwise preoccupied. 

 

Kyungsoo gave Sehun a tilt of his head but Jongin noticed the man’s stare sliding towards his direction, for a moment. His face did not change, he was sure, but there was a telltale twitch on the corner of his lips, a ghost of a smile that Kyungsoo had gotten good at reading.

 

He nodded at Sehun and the Senior Lieutenant went to sit beside Kyungsoo as the shorter male pulled out one a thin notebook, threaded on the side with brown twine. The pen in his hand looked like it was about to run out, Jongin noticed.

 

He sat down and said, “Pull me one of the maps of the peninsula from that shelf on the side, Senior Lieutenant Park.”

 

Park gave a go at the soldier beside him and Jongin was surprised to see Jongdae stand up. The man pushed his chair and he grabbed one of the rolled maps shelved on top of the wooden cabinet. It had slipped past his mind that Jongdae was assigned to Park Chanyeol’s unit, a senior lieutenant older than Jongin with a wide grin but terrible trigger finger.

 

He raised his eyebrow at the man when he handed him the map but Jongdae returned it with a careless shrug. Jongin unrolled the paper and the scent of old books from the sepia colored years of storage hit him with familiarity. Someone pushed the paper weights and he placed one on two corners diagonal of each other. The large sheet took up the majority of their table and most of the men around the table withdrew their hands from where it was resting on the edge of the wood. Kyungsoo pulled the notebook closer to himself as he poised his pen to write.

 

“We’re marching to Taejon on the 14th of this month,” Jongin said without preamble. He stood up and he leaned forward to tap the tip of his index finger on the region south of Seoul—one hundred miles, two to three hours of sitting on top of trucks or armored vehicles. “The goal is to take the peninsula from there. After Taejon, we head to Pusan.”

 

His fingers traced a straight line, nail scraping the old paper, soundless. Jongin explained, “The entire battalion under Lieutenant Colonel Gwak was being dissolved into a special ops unit. We’ll be part of the Third Division under Major General Rang as ground command.”

 

Jongin raised his head from the map and he could see the serious faces of the Senior Lieutenants. Jongdae was humming but no one was stopping him—not even his commanding officer, Park. Kyungsoo was writing slowly so Jongin took a deep breath and, if he was giving preferential treatment to only one, then no soldier in the room would be able to tell except Kyungsoo himself.

 

He let a moment pass and the only audible sounds were the scribbling of ballpoint pens on the scratchy paper as well as their breathing. Their exhales were loud against the stillness and the staccato of the moving clock hand. Jongin tapped his finger twice to get the men’s attention and heads snapped towards his finger.

 

He pointed at one corner, north of the area marked with Taejon, saying, “The third will be stationed west of Taejon from where we’re coming from. Our company won’t be part of the tank tread or the field artillery.” He pointed to a dot on the map, the one labeled Yusong. “We’ll begin here as we move south and see to it that we come out victorious.”

 

Jongin did not sigh but he dearly wished to. Instead he punctuated his sentence with a sharp bark of, “Understood?”

 

Everyone returned it with an enthusiastic sounding, “Yes, Sir!”

 

Their faces showed otherwise—sunken eyes and green pallor. No one looked like they wanted the war to continue. Jongin could see weariness on the faces of the soldiers gathered around the table, reflecting the hellhole of the previous weeks and then, the coming days.

 

“Captain Kim,” one of the senior lieutenants—Ryu—piped up. “By ground command, you mean to say infantrymen?”

 

Jongin took note of the man’s scowl and he looked Ryu straight in the eye. There was a hint of a challenge on the man’s gaze. Ignoring the arrogance, he answered simply, “Yes.”

 

Ryu’s eyebrows rose to his hairline and Jongin could see Park, and even Sehun, display expressions of varying degrees of surprise. Kyungsoo did not. Jongdae looked contemplative. The man beside Ryu, the one Jongin did not know the name of, blatantly frowned, thin mouth twisting into a scowl.

 

“We’re part of the armored division,” Ryu said. It sounded like a whine to Jongin’s ears. Soldiers were the same no matter what rank—the best complainers Jongin had the torture of working with.

 

“Not anymore,” he retorted. Jongin sat back and he crossed his legs. His hands were clasped on top of his knees as he raised his chin in a challenge. He was still the highest officer in the room, even if he was not the oldest.

 

Ryu turned red at that—Jongin knew what for. The senior lieutenant was older than he was—less experienced, yes, but that was only because the man, as far as Jongin knew, spent more years in the constabulary washing bed covers and cleaning bathrooms than the war zone. 

 

Jongin also knew how he looked like as his lips curled, out of instinct and habit, in a smirk. He was the picture perfect image of military arrogance, young and ranked with 280 men under his command.

 

“Not even field artillery,” Ryu scoffed. His cheeks had yet to subside with the redness of his anger. From his periphery, Jongin saw Kyungsoo stiffen up, looking like there was a fight about to break out. There might be—Jongin was not sure. He had never worked alongside Senior Lieutenant Rang but, from how the man was conducting himself, he seemed to be a volatile man. 

 

Jongin’s shoulder widened even if he was sitting down and he leaned to the side just a bit so Ryu would clearly see the Nagant holstered on him, would smell the fresh cleaning solvent against the gleaming gunmetal.

 

Ryu took the movement as a bait and he snarled, “I guess we have to settle for the Third Division—” His eyes brightened up with fury and his mouth moved in contempt, baring his teeth. “—since the talk of most of us was that you sucked Major General Rang’s cock for your promotion, _Captain Kim_.”

 

Red hot anger coursed through Jongin’s veins at the other male’s words and he bit out, “Watch your words, Senior Lieutenant Ryu. I’m still your commanding officer.”

 

Ryu had smiled wider, predatory and cold, and he countered, “Or what? You’ll bend me over and fuck me? I bet you do that to the fags from your own platoon, anyway.” The man’s stare zeroed in on Sehun and Kyungsoo. The taller of the two looked impassive but Kyungsoo was pink in the face as well as the tips of his cheeks. 

 

Jongin caught the older man biting his lip and Ryu must have had too because he snorted, tipping his head to Kyungsoo’s direction. The older senior lieutenant remarked idly, fingers dancing in the air towards Kyungsoo’s mortified features, “That one looks pretty enough, doesn’t he, Captain Kim Jongin? Cock sucking lips and—” Ryu leaned back, bending his head as if checking Kyungsoo out. “—thick thighs and hips. I could close my eyes and treat him like a bitch. I wouldn’t mind a go with him if you’re willing to share, Ca—”

 

“Senior Lieutenant Ryu.” Jongin said sharply. The air broke with a fissure from the snap of his voice. It was getting harder to breathe and he had never felt this angry before—this angry that he wanted to pull his revolver and point it straight to the smirking senior lieutenant. Jongin wanted to feel the man’s mouth around the muzzle of his gun and stare him down as he tugged the trigger backwards. Instead he settled for a threat, a promise, and a warning at the same time.

 

“That’s harassment of your fellow soldier and it’s not something I will tolerate,” he shot the man a glare before he gave Sehun a slight nod. “You won’t go unpunished.”

 

Sehun stood up and Ryu did too. The man threw his hands in the air as he laughed, “Punishment? You’re handing punishments on men who tell the truth!” 

 

He waved his hands to Kyungsoo’s direction and Jongin made the mistake of following it with his gaze. Kyungsoo was looking down and his face was pink with embarrassment, coloring his cheeks down to his neck. His eyes were glazed over and, from Jongin’s periphery, he could see Jongdae gripping the edge of the table as if he, too, would pull his own firearm.

 

“Yes,” Jongin said. “And insubordination.”

 

Suddenly, a loud click echoed in the room as Ryu pulled his own gun from his holster. Jongin remained sitting down as the man trained it to his face. His hand was shaking with how mad he was. His eyes were wild and his teeth chattered. The tension in the air rose.

 

Jongin slid his gaze towards Sehun who was frozen in his spot. His second-in-command snapped out of his trance as he slowly, ever so light and quiet, moved behind Ryu. Three other officers did not look like they care—neither bothering with the threat that was hanging on the tips of Ryu’s fingers. Senior Lieutenant Park looked bored, checking his nails. 

 

_What a mess_ , Jongin thought.

 

“Put your weapon down, Senior Lieutenant Ryu,” Jongin ordered calmly.

 

The man did not comply as he hissed out, “Why are still so arrogant when I’m the one with an unlocked gun?” Ryu’s question dragged into a half-scream and frustration was apparent in his voice as well as the vibrant green of jealousy.

 

Jongin tilted his head to the right, displaying the long column of his neck and the sharp relief of his jawline. The sun filtered through the partially opened windows and the gun on Ryu’s hold glimmered just a bit.

 

“Put your weapon down,” he repeated. He could see Sehun poised to strike. 

 

Ryu’s hand was still quivering and his finger on the trigger was shaking. Jongin sighed and ordered, “Do it.”

 

“What are yo—”

 

In an instant, Senior Lieutenant Ryu fell to the floor in a heap. The side of Sehun’s right hand had made contact with the man’s neck before his left hand had pushed the man’s head to the side. The firearm clattered and Ryu’s form had made it roll across the rough floor.

 

Senior Lieutenant Park picked the burp gun with an easy smile as he placed it on top of the table, asking, “Is the meeting over? I’m kind of hungry.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The peninsula burned wherever soldiers go. The days passed like they did not. Everything looked the same under the same sky—the blue of it looked gray like the ones in photographs or newspapers. Colors did not look like the way they used to when they were tinted with the shadows of dark red and murky brown, as well as the filters of the hazy smog and thick exhaust.

 

Imaginary flames licked the sides of large buildings as actual fire broke out in the country side, destroying the homes of the poor and killing livestock. As they moved down South, towards Taejon, they took the provinces like thieves, kept public and state-owned vehicles for themselves. The wads of cash inside the pockets of men and women fluttered around various military hands, dirty money and white lies amidst the uncontrollable hunger for power and safety.

 

Jongin stole lives and dreams without a second glance, without a hesitant exhale. He ran out of bullets and he replaced them like they costed nothing when, in reality, the price of one was another person’s life—the cylinder lodged against tender flesh or bleeding organ.

 

Before Taejon, they stopped along the borders near Yusong where they had made a home for themselves—a temporary moment where they could pretend that everything was okay hours before they traded gunshots and blood. 

 

Jongin walked around the desolate remnants of an almost town. War smelled like dust and rust—from the billowing aftermath of smoke and explosions, scattering the soil and the earth wet with blood and sweat and tears. 

 

War also smelled like garbage, huge lands turned into dumpsters—corpses littering in straight lines with their faces turned towards the ground. Some of them were stripped down to nothing and some were dressed fully, the beautiful colors of their hanbok or the vibrant hues of their tailored skirts and jackets, mass produced in factories and more expensive. 

 

Jongin had yet to decide which of the dead he preferred to see—those who died with everything they owned taken away from them, or those who died in the middle of everything, amidst a thought or a kiss or a speech.

 

It was jarring, for him, to see the corpses like this. And, sometimes, Jongin thought the choice did not matter either way. These people were dead and whether they died with nothing—even dignity—or they died fighting for their lives, graveyards looked the same unmarked.

 

At Yusong, the air sundered with the body count and the ruins. When, under the commands of Lieutenant Colonel Gwak, Jongin had been assigned to catalogue the dead like it would make a difference, he was surprised to see Sehun already in one of the large houses near the center. This one reminded Jongin of old money—all tiered roofs made with expensive tiles and lacquered wood.

 

Inside, there were porcelain vases painted with the delicate lines of ink and the tapestries were made of silk with frames heavy with the curved patterns sculpted on imported wood freshly varnished with scented oil.

 

In the middle of it all, was a massacre.

 

Dead bodies littered the floor and the pungent smell of decaying flesh had already been permeating across every nook and cranny of the house. Blood stained the wood and the porcelain and the glass as some of it dripped on paper and pooled on lying bodies, unmoving and undisturbed. 

 

Jongin pressed his hand to his nose, for a moment, as he took deep breaths at the sight before him. A woman in a beautifully made hanbok—the ones that were not cheap, thick with fabric and embroidery—was sprawled gracelessly.

 

Jongin did not know which one among the heads was hers.

 

He heard someone gag and he felt a strong urge to do so. He stamped it down with sheer will power and training, reminding himself that he was not a rookie soldier anymore.

 

“Is it already like this when you arrived, Senior Lieutenant Oh?” Jongin asked. He walked, careful not to step on anything, towards Sehun’s direction.

 

“Yes,” the younger soldier answered. 

 

Sometimes, it surprised Jongin that Sehun had now been in command of his own unit, the old one where he had devoted himself to with soldiers who knew and respected him. Sehun stared at the corpses once more before giving a nod at one of the soldiers to the side. Immediately, the started cleaning the bodies, pushing the furniture to accommodate the corpses.

 

Sehun eyed the wreckage but his eyes never went to Jongin’s. He said, after a beat, “We found this letter being held by Kang Won Bin.” Jongin’s stare followed the direction of the tip of Sehun’s finger. It landed to a pot bellied man, in clothes that were meant for indoors rather than outdoors.

 

“That’s him,” Sehun began. His voice remained neutral, like he was speaking over the interruptions of radio static. “The military wants his cooperation in taking out the enemies of the people.”

 

“And he did not want to?”

 

Sehun nodded, “He did not want to.”

 

“So he killed himself and his entire family, including the domestic servants in his household.” The paper that Sehun handed him crinkled in his hold.

 

“Figured that the letter could have been a suicide note,” Sehun explained.

 

Jongin hummed as his index fingers played with the flap of the envelope. His nails scraped on the paper, flicking it open. The piece of paper was folded thrice and, when he unfurled it, the thin strokes of black that bled through the back of the sheet. It still smelled like fresh ink.

 

The handwriting was beautiful—almost a calligraphy. The ones that could not be achieved with a pen or a pencil. The suicide not was, in itself, an art form. Jongin admired it distantly—the way one would admire the intricacies of military strategies despite the fact that they would lead to the deaths and devastation.

 

On the paper, it said simply: _I will not sell myself and my country to the puppet government. There was nothing in this war for me or for anyone else. It was a game played by powerful men, using the lives of the people as sacrificial pieces._

 

Jongin folded the paper, breathed the scent of blood and ink, gunpowder on the skin under his nose. He thought, Kang Won Bin was a smart man but also profoundly stupid.

 

“Is it relevant?” Sehun asked. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, hands still clasped behind his back.

 

“Not really,” Jongin answered. “It's filled with patriotic platitudes that have no meaning.”

 

Sehun plucked the envelope from his hand, taking the paper and perusing the written words. He hummed too and bit his lower lip. He glanced at Jongin and, with a quiet sigh, asked, “You don’t agree.”

 

Jongin gave the younger soldier a look and Sehun’s eyes widened. Understanding passed through them but Jongin allowed himself the luxury of admitting it out loud.

 

“I didn’t say I disagreed,” he snatched the letter back, replacing it inside the folds of the envelope. He stuffed it inside one of his trouser pockets. Jongin looked away, gazing at the dead bodies around. “I just said they were senseless platitudes.”

 

The feeling of something inside him shifting was familiar. Jongin ignored it and ordered his men to search the house. He looked away—the weight of the letter settled inside his pocket, too heavy for something that was flimsy.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Captain Kim!” Someone ran up to him in the hallway, a series of loud footsteps amidst the living quarters. “Sir!”

 

Jongin stopped in his tracks, a few doors away from his bedroom, as he turned around to face one of his men. He could not place a name to the face but he was sure he had seen the soldier in Senior Lieutenant Park’s platoon.

 

“What is it, soldier?” He asked, feigning interest. 

 

The man barely panted but he took several deep breathes before handing Jongin two boxes. He said, “Senior Lieutenant Park and Senior Lieutenant Oh asked me to deliver these boxes to you. They were found raiding the houses of Kang Won Bin and Ryu Min Ho—locked.”

 

He rose his eyebrows as he was handed two wooden boxes. Jongin said, “Thank you,” before nodding the soldier to move. Both the boxes lied heavy on his palms but, when he knocked on the wood, it was solid. 

 

Jongin made his way inside his room, opening it with one of his keys. When he closed it, he left the door unlocked. The lever remained vertical and the distinct missing sound of the clicking bolt was familiar. The sound of the door hitting the jamb was definitive and anticipatory.

 

He pulled the uneven chair, sitting down carefully, as he set both boxes on the desk. He turned the lamp on and the room was flooded with the orange light, warm and incandescent. Jongin let the silence envelope the vacuum that was his bedroom and the only sound audible was the monotone of the rudimentary wall clock.

 

Jongin pulled one of the pockets knives he kept amidst pens and rolled paper. He pushed the stack of stationery to the side before pushing his written letters inside one of the drawers, clicking the latch in place.

 

He forced one of the boxes open with the blade of his knife, almost nicking himself for the trouble. The first one gave in easily, the lid undoing itself. Jongin ran his fingers on the edge as he admired the finish of the rose wood. It looked expensive.

 

Inside, he rifled through the contents, finding nothing but jewelry. He studied each under the light, marveling at the amount inside the small box. Jongin could buy a tiny plot of land in the countryside with this much money. A glimmer caught his eye and his stare zeroed in on a large piece of ruby. It felt familiar to his touch, cold and blood red. He replaced it inside his box and took out something that was plain and silver. 

 

The ring was thin and it barely gleamed under the light. It looked cheap among the other jewels, something rough and eye catching. Jongin wondered if it would fit into one of Kyungsoo’s fingers, thought the other man’s hand would look nice with a little metal.

 

Nothing too fancy, he knew. They were not made for diamonds and platinum—only foolish gold and alloy. He wondered how this one got inside the jewelry box and how it stayed kept, like a secret.

 

Jongin thought it was perfect as he weighed the band on top of his palm. He tried it on for size and it slipped easily over his pinky finger. When he took it out, he tried to put it on the proper finger but the ring snagged past his first knuckle, cutting off circulation.

 

With a laugh, he twisted it around his finger, wincing slightly when it did not give easily.

 

A knock on the door broke the silence of the room. Two raps in succession before a momentary pause. And then, another. Firm and sure.

 

Jongin did not need to answer, closing the box and putting it inside one of the cabinet drawers near the desk. The door pushed open as he shoved the small compartment close. 

 

“Lock the door, Kyungsoo,” he said, reminded. The older man did not need any prompting—already used to the routine of breathing quietly and sliding into the small gap of Jongin’s door, inconspicuous under the dead of the hallway outside.

 

The lock clicked into place and Jongin realized he forgot to put the ring inside the box. He pushed it over his small finger, the metal refusing to wink under the glare of the lamp. 

 

Kyungsoo approached slowly, murmured, “Hi.” He sounded shy and warmth flared all over Jongin’s belly, creeping into his chest and threatening to burn his heart. Kyungsoo had this effect on him—like he was about to disappear any second with the sound of the older man’s voice, or the heat of his touch.

 

“Hi,” greeted Jongin.

 

He stood up and turned to the shorter man, finding him in the middle of his tiny room like he belonged there. Kyungsoo was shifty on his feet, knees knocked together and hands linked in front of him, wringing together in anxiety. Jongin smiled fondly, helpless at the sight of the other.

 

It took Jongin one large stride before Kyungsoo was in his arms. He wrapped his limbs around the older man’s waist as the Kyungsoo buried his face on the side of his neck. He felt hot breath fan over his skin as Kyungsoo sighed, his own arms going around Jongin’s figure.

 

Jongin walked the two of them backwards until he felt the edge of the bed hitting the back of his knees. He sat down and shuffled backwards, removing his shoes quickly. Kyungsoo did the same before he crawled in between his legs. The two of them fixed their positions until Jongin was on his back, flat on the bed, and Kyungsoo was half on top of him. One of the man’s legs was thrown in the middle of both of his and and a short arm was draped loosely on his torso.

 

The light played on both their skin, dancing shadows on canvases bruised purple and embossed with scars. Kyungsoo’s hair tickled the underside of Jongin’s jaw and the heat of being cramped on the small mattress was satisfying and achingly common.

 

Jongin caught Kyungsoo’s wandering hand with his as his other hand lazily ran over the side of Kyungsoo’s body. His fingers followed over the natural curve, ghosting over the coarse fabric of the uniform the man was wearing.

 

“We do a lot of this,” Kyungsoo commented out of nowhere.

 

Jongin’s fingers paused, curling over the jutting hipbone. “That is?”

 

“ _This_ ,” the older man breathed out. Jongin felt lashes fluttering on his neck and his heart soared. Kyungsoo must have felt it from where he was pressed closed to Jongin, almost skin to skin. Lips mouthed on his skin and Jongin’s stomach tightened, abdomen contracting. His hand squeezed Kyungsoo’s hand as his fingers pressed against bone. “Lying on the bed. We spend many minutes just doing nothing. Hugging. Kissing.”

 

Jongin chuckled, teased, “Do you not like it?”

 

“I like it. More than like it,” Kyungsoo paused. The ticking of the clock was loud when it was not being drowned by their voices. “I’m afraid we will get caught.”

 

Jongin paused and any reply was caught in his throat, eaten away by Kyungsoo’s lips moving upwards just below Jongin’s ear. The older man’s nose left a trail of a caress on the relief of his jawbone, tickles of light touches on the back of Jongin’s lobe.

 

“And yet you do this,” he said breathily. He pushed Kyungsoo’s top slightly and his fingernails dug on the warm flesh. Jongin relished on the softness of Kyungsoo’s torso—the way his belly would have a soft give, yielding pliant underneath his hands and mouth.

 

Kyungsoo just hummed as he clambered over on top of Jongin’s body. Chest to chest, the warmth spread between them, coursing through their veins. The older man’s eyes were dark and his lids were drooping down, lashes casting a shadow from the lamp that was still alight on top of Jongin’s desk.

 

Jongin looked up the male just as the other looked down at him. There was a soft smile playing on Kyungsoo’s lips and his heart stuttered underneath the stare, overwhelmed. He raised his hand, squirming from where he was bearing Kyungsoo’s weight, to cradle the side of the smaller man’s head. Kyungsoo shivered when Jongin’s hand rested flat, fingers worming through the strands of short hair. 

 

Suddenly, Jongin was reminded of the metal band when it snagged through tendrils of hair, making Kyungsoo grimace. Jongin laughed, and said, “I’m sorry.”

 

Kyungsoo pushed his lips outwards and Jongin leaned up to peck the pout away. It softened into a grin as Jongin worked his pinky finger out of Kyungsoo’s hair.

 

When he did, the older man was quick to hold his wrist, holding Jongin’s palm to face him, asking, “What is this?”

 

“A ring,” Jongin answered snidely.

 

Kyungsoo gave him a dirty look and Jongin broke out in a huff of a chuckle—something that Kyungsoo would effortlessly coax out of him, he noticed. He shook his head, mussing his hair from where it was set on the thin pillow. 

 

He amended, more truthful, “A jewelry box from one of the families we had to—” He gulped, eyes flitting away from Kyungsoo’s waiting expression. Fingers drummed on his chest from where Kyungsoo had rested them, a signal for him to continue. “— _visit._ Senior Lieutenants Park and Oh gave them to me. I opened it and found this inside.”

 

“So you wore it?” Kyungsoo asked, incredulous.

 

“You suddenly entered my room. I forgot to return it back when I kept the box.”

 

“What does it have to do to me?” Kyungsoo shifted on top of him and Jongin bit his lower lip when the pressure between his legs became more apparent. When he let go, he licked his lips, soothing the sting from where his teeth had embedded itself into the soft flesh.

 

“You make me nervous,” he replied. Not an ounce of teasing or flirting. Just clear honesty, words left unfiltered. “You make me forget a lot of things.”

 

Kyungsoo hummed and smiled. “Good answer,” he said.

 

The lamp once again flickered over Kyungsoo’s face and, this time, from where he was underneath the man, Jongin watched in full color, in vibrant details, how the shadow darkened Kyungsoo’s features. His mouth was curved up in a smile and it slowly grew bigger. His cheeks bunched up and his eyes turned into slits, arching in the most beautiful way that Jongin had seen. His smile was gummy and real—the only real thing in the middle of this room, he thought—and up close, Jongin could map all the moles on Kyungsoo’s face.

 

His breath left him as his chest clenched around something invisible, but substantial. 

 

Jongin blurted out, “I want to marry you, Kyungsoo.”

 

Kyungsoo froze above him and his breathing stilled. Jongin could feel his face heating up, turning red as Kyungsoo’s eyes widen, mouth gaping at the admission. He said, “What,” and it echoed in the middle of the secrecy of Jongin’s bedroom.

 

Jongin, if possible, felt himself shrink and his insides gnawed against each other, relentless. He brushed it off with a nervous smile, said, “Nothing. I was kidding.”

 

Kyungsoo leveled his stare on him and once again, the scrutiny was borderline painful. Jongin felt like he was about to crack along the edges.

 

“It was not nothing.”

 

Jongin sighed, whispering, “It was not.” 

 

“Repeat it again,” Kyungsoo demanded. His face looked less shut off now, less closed to Jongin’s eyes.

 

With a surge of confidence, Jongin said softly, but nonetheless certain, “I want to marry you.” He took a gulp of air and he swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing down. Kyungsoo was blinking slowly, languid and patient. He said, “I know we can’t. But—”

 

He paused and hoped that the silence spoke enough for him.

 

Kyungsoo replied, resting his head on Jongin’s chest. His good ear was pressed directly on where Jongin could feel the strongest thumps of his heart, pounding against his ribcage. Kyungsoo smiled and Jongin felt every movement. The older man said, “I want to marry you too, Jongin.”

 

Jongin’s heart felt like it stopped then but Kyungsoo did not move his head from where it was lying on his chest. Kyungsoo’s hand moved so his fingers were resting beside his own head, drumming on Jongin’s pectoral. 

 

“Kyungsoo—” Jongin whispered. The older male hummed, “What is it?”

 

Jongin moved and he sat the both of them up. Kyungsoo was in between his thighs, sprawled carelessly. He let out a stream of breath, drawn out and shaky, as he removed the silver ring he took from the jewelry box.

 

“Jongin,” Kyungsoo said brokenly. His eyes were trained on Jongin’s every movement, following the way the band slipped right off of Jongin’s small finger. “You can’t just give that to me.”

 

He threw the other man a lopsided smile, crooked and boyish, daring. Kyungsoo had told him once that it was charming. “I don’t have anything else to give you.”

 

“You don’t need to give me anything,” Kyungsoo replied, shuffling closer that his knees were almost pressed on Jongin’s crotch. The warmth of the room was suddenly unbearable.

 

Jongin leaned closer and he placed a tender kiss on Kyungsoo’s mouth. It lasted short and when he parted from the man, he murmured against Kyungsoo’s lips, “I want to give you everything though.” 

 

The blush that overtook Kyungsoo’s cheeks was inviting and Jongin gave in, pecking each cheek delicately. A butterfly wing of a kiss on the petal that was Kyungsoo’s skin.

 

Jongin took Kyungsoo’s left hand, debating, before he let go. Kyungsoo looked confused for a moment before he picked the right one up. At the questioning glance, Jongin explained, “Traditionally, you’re supposed to put it on the person’s left ring finger.” Jongin rubbed his thumb on the Kyungsoo’s knuckles, feeling the older man’s pulse from where he had held his wrist.

 

“You don’t want traditional?” Kyungsoo asked.

 

“We’re not exactly traditional lovers.” Jongin colored at the word and he was pleased to find that Kyungsoo did too.

 

“Lovers,” the older male repeated. “It’s the first time you said the word.”

 

Jongin gave him an indulgent smile. “It’s also your first time to say it.”

 

Kyungsoo beamed happily, sighing out a contented, “Yes, it is.”

 

His hand shook when he held the ring in between his thumb and forefinger. He raised Kyungsoo’s finger higher before heaved a deep breath. Jongin looked at Kyungsoo first and the man had a small smile on his face, encouraging.

 

“What are you waiting for, Jongin?” Kyungsoo teased. His voice trembled but Jongin did not point it out. 

 

He took another inhale before slowly letting go of the air inside his lungs. The motion did not relax the explosion in his guts. His palms were clammy and he held the ring tighter lest it slid out of his grasp. He tried it on Kyungsoo’s ring finger and he knots in his stomach slowly came undone when the band slipped without difficulty. 

 

The first knuckle, the second, until it was resting on Kyungsoo’s finger.

 

It looked beautiful there—even without any stone or glimmer. The ring looked perfect where it was.

 

Kyungsoo gave a quivering exhale and Jongin looked up to see the older man with a wet smile, eyes crinkled. Jongin felt light—like he was floating but this time, he knew where he was and who he was.

 

_Kim Jongin. In Yusong, inside his bedroom. Kyungsoo was in front of him_.

 

“Darling,” he sighed and Jongin did not realize that tears were pooling in his eyes until Kyungsoo wiped it away. 

 

“I’m here,” the older man said. His thumb caressed Jongin’s cheekbone, circles on top of the high bone. “I’m here, Jongin.”

 

Kyungsoo met his mouth in a kiss and what started off as tender turned heated. Jongin opened his mouth and the other pushed his tongue inside, exploring every inch and prodding every corner. Their tongues tangled in an embrace and Jongin’s hand moved to Kyungsoo’s waist when the latter kneeled up, making himself taller than Jongin.

 

Jongin shuffled backwards, pulling Kyungsoo with him so that their kiss did not stop. He gripped the back of Kyungsoo’s shirt, trying to tug it off.

 

“Impatient,” Kyungsoo said but he took his shirt off, displaying his torso. He pointed out, “Yours too.”

 

Jongin did not take long to divest himself of his clothing and Kyungsoo’s eyes raked over his form hungrily. His pupils were dilated, dark and heady that Jongin could get lost in them if he wanted to. He felt the older man’s stare go up and down his body and he felt self conscious, for a moment, at the scars that were visible from the years of fighting in the war.

 

Not because he was imperfect but because of what each of them meant. A scar for several lives. A remnant of a wound for too many sins.

 

The one from last time had already healed, by some degree—pink and tender still but nothing Jongin had ever experienced before. The loss of consciousness, from the last time he had seen Doctor Kim, was because of the fatigue rather than the injury.

 

His hand tightened on Kyungsoo’s hip as Jongin, out of instinct, curled in on himself. This time, outwardly.

 

The action was not missed by Kyungsoo and the men sat on his calves, moving closer. His hands held either side of Jongin’s face as he tilted it, making them eye level.

 

“Why are you hiding yourself?” Kyungsoo asked. “I’ve seen you like this before. And even before that, I’ve seen you many times.”

 

Jongin rested his forehead against Kyungsoo’s and their breathing mingled with each other, becoming one. He replied, admitting, “This is different.”

 

“Why so?” Kyungsoo caressed the relief of his jaw, drawing small patters he could not anything out of.

 

Helplessly, Jongin said, “I just gave you a ring.”

 

Kyungsoo chuckled low and short and he pecked Jongin’s lips. The burst of warmth was a reassurance. “You did give me a ring.” Kyungsoo pecked him again and Jongin melted, broke underneath Kyungsoo’s palms like old blocks. “Thank you.” Silence and then, “Don’t hide yourself from me, Jongin.”

 

Before Jongin could answer Kyungsoo had already pressed their mouths together. The older man pushed him back so he was leaning backwards, just a little bit that the length of his torso was exposed. Kyungsoo bit his bottom lip and his teeth dragged on the flesh when they separated.

 

“Can I do something?” Kyungsoo asked breathlessly. His cheeks were tinged with pink and his eyes were bright, twinkling with something Jongin did not wish to decipher—the pleasure here, he knew, was in the surprise.

 

Jongin nodded his head and Kyungsoo pushed him farther back. His upper back was against the wall as he slumped down. His torso was wide open, displaying the collection of marks he had hoarded over the years.

 

Kyungsoo’s mouth kissed him again, sweet and closed mouthed, before it moved to nip downwards. His lips trailed fire on Jongin’s neck as Kyungsoo sucked and licked, giving small nibbling bites. His nose was ghosting alongside the older man’s mouth and fire against the expanse of Jongin’s body grew until it was lighting up his insides as well.

 

Kyungsoo’s finger went to trace one nipple, circling, before giving it a light pinch. Jongin moaned high and Kyungsoo smiled, kissing around the dusky bud. His hips bucked as he felt himself swell under his trousers in interest. 

 

The older man’s palm glided over Jongin’s clothed thigh, running it up and down the flesh. Kyungsoo’s hand hovered dangerously near his crotch but the he did not touch. Kyungsoo’s mouth continued their journey down as Jongin tried to breathe, feeling the thick air in his mouth and never quite reaching his lungs.

 

Kyungsoo’s mouth stopped below Jongin’s chest. In the middle, just where it slightly hollowed out, he raised his head and looked at Jongin straight in the eyes. Both his hands were now resting on the planes of Jongin’s abdomen, tracing the scars there. 

 

Before Jongin could say anything, Kyungsoo leaned down, kissing the scar on his right side. It sent a phantom pain when his lips made contact. 

 

“Tell me about this one,” Kyungsoo murmured. Jongin’s stomach contracted when Kyungsoo nosed along the length of the raised skin.

 

“Knife. Five years ago,” he breathed out. One of his hands went to Kyungsoo’s head, fingers playing with the man’s hair. His other hand was gripping the sheet for rapport lest he suddenly crumbled. “I was stupid. One of the Chinese soldiers insulted a Korean volunteer. I got that for being arrogant.”

 

Kyungsoo hummed before his lips mouthed on the scar again. It stretched out and the softness tickled Jongin that he, quite belatedly, realized that there was no pain. The older man said, “You got this one for standing up another person.”

 

Jongin stopped breathing and he knew—he knew where this was going.

 

“Kyungsoo. Darling.” His breathing was labored and Jongin felt everything all at once—lust, want, need, craving, hunger.

 

Respect.

 

Affection.

 

Longing.

 

Love.

 

“Sweetheart,” Kyungsoo said and his kisses were tiny, outlining another scar. His mouth made love to the mark sucking the skin around the discolored area, giving tiny kitten licks. His hands were on the bands of Jongin’s trousers, fingers slipping inside. Idly, Kyungsoo requested, “How about this one?”

 

“Bullet wound,” Jongin answered promptly. “Three years ago in Hyesan. There weren’t many people and the one of the soldiers they—” He took a deep breath as the memories spiraled out of his mind. Kyungsoo’s fingers were sliding across the skin under his pants.

 

“There were women.” Kyungsoo popped the button, scraping his nail on the skin. His cock twitched and it pressed against his zipper, insistent. He took a steadying breath and repeated again, “There were women. And barely any people. No one wanted—I stopped some soldiers.”

 

He felt a smile bloom against his torso and Kyungsoo kissed the mark again. Hands creeped low to the insides of his thighs as the older man kneaded the flesh there. “You saved them.”

 

Jongin nodded, feeling light headed.

 

Kyungsoo did the same for all the marks in Jongin’s body and he traded a kiss for every story. Some where less pleasant than others but Kyungsoo treated it like it was part of Jongin. The memories and the anecdotes that built who he was today—scars and burnt marks on his skin, scars and burnt marks on the places that were not quite as visibly concrete.

 

When the older man’s mouth reached Jongin’s belly button, he felt warm air being blown over the skin. Jongin shivered as Kyungsoo nibbled around, before plunging his tongue in. He released a high keening noise, a “Kyungsoo!”

 

Kyungsoo smiled, biting the edge of his navel, before his mouth ventured even more south. His hands cupped Jongin’s hard on through his pants and he groaned, feeling the pressure of Kyungsoo’s palms.

 

“I want to take care of you,” the older man confessed. He was looking up at Jongin through his eyelashes and, when he blinked, it was slow and lazy. Seductive.

 

“How can I say no?” Jongin exhaled. “When you ask so nicely?” Frustration built up along the borders of his consciousness in large increments. Kyungsoo chuckled but his right hand found Jongin’s zipper, tugging it down.

 

The ring on his finger caught the light and it winked.

 

Jongin’s heartbeat raced as Kyungsoo moved his fly in a barely there pace, taking his sweet time. He took a breath, telling himself over and over again that the pleasure was in the waiting game, the teasing.

 

“Lift your hips,” Kyungsoo said. Jongin obeyed.

 

The other man pulled his trousers down in a swift move, letting it catch on Jongin’s the bend of His knees. Kyungsoo kneeled in between his legs and his fingers were leisurely moving along Jongin’s exposed thighs. They dipped on the insides, blunt nails digging crescent marks and Jongin could not help the moan that was ripped out of his throat. His cock was heavy with want, the head red and peeking out of the band of his underwear.

 

Kyungsoo hummed before he bent down. Jongin watched the arch of his back, ass high in the air, when Kyungsoo’s mouth latched on his inner thigh, hand pulling the flesh to gain more access. Jongin sucked in a sharp breath when Kyungsoo sucked particularly harshly before nibbling his way up.

 

His nose hit Jongin’s clothed arousal and he could not help the way he bucked his hips. Kyungsoo’s other hand flew to hold him down as the man said, “Stay still.”

 

Jongin exhaled, but agreed with an almost inaudible, “Okay.”

 

Kyungsoo pressed a kiss on his underwear and the softness of his lips was not deterred by the fabric. Jongin whines but did not move. Kyungsoo nosed the length of his half hard cock, tracing the visible line from where it was pressing against the cloth.

 

“You’re already so turned on,” the older man said. His breath was hot on Jongin’s dick and he felt like the mouth was already hovering on top of his member. Kyungsoo added, “I made you this way.”

 

“Yes,” Jongin replied, voice hitching. “I want you so bad. Always.”

 

Kyungsoo smiled at that and the heat in Jongin’s belly flared up when the older man looked up. He ran his tongue along his upper lip, slicking it with spit. Jongin gulped down and he gave a loud cry when Kyungsoo’s mouth made contact with his underwear, hot and open.

 

“Kyungsoo!” He called out. His hand gripped Kyungsoo’s hair, spasming and not knowing whether he should pull Kyungsoo away or push him in.

 

The older man clicked his tongue but his lips traveled up. His fingers hooked on the band of Jongin’s underwear, leaving an imprint on the side of his member, before he pulled it low. Jongin made it easier for them as he raised himself up.

 

His cock sprung free from the confines of the fabric and the air nipped on the sensitive skin. Kyungsoo was looking up at him before Jongin felt lips on the tip, kissing the head. He twisted Kyungsoo’s hair around his fist and the man groaned in pain.

 

“Sorry,” he said, hold relaxing. 

 

Kyungsoo shook his head and smiled, guileless. “I like that.”

 

Jongin’s hard on twitched and the older man noticed. Pre-cum was beading thick and Kyungsoo wrapped his arm around the base, giving it a pump. The dry contact was uncomfortable but it was Kyungsoo’s presence who was making Jongin this way and not the sensation.

 

“Spread the pre-cum a bit,” Jongin said. Kyungsoo slid his hands upward and his thumb rubbed against the slit. Jongin moaned and Kyungsoo smirked. He gathered the beads of white, lathering the skin so the glide was smoother.

 

Kyungsoo began stroking him, fingers tight around his cock. He started with slow strokes and Jongin grew harder under the man’s movements. His leg jerked when Kyungsoo twisted his wrist while biting his bottom lip. 

 

“Jongin,” the man breathed out. He looked up and stopped his hand. “I—” His face flared red and Jongin waited, feeling hard still even if Kyungsoo’s palm had stilled. “I want to try… There’s something that I’ve been thinking of doing.”

 

He smiled and said, “If you really want to do it.”

 

“I don’t know how,” the older man confessed. Jongin was endeared, replying almost immediately, “You can learn slowly.”

 

Kyungsoo nodded and Jongin did not know what he was expecting but he should have. The other man bent down again, chest almost on the mattress, and his lips wrapped around the tip of Jongin’s erection.

 

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Jongin swore long, drawing out the last syllable. Kyungsoo’s mouth formed an O around the head before he felt the man suck. Jongin groaned and his hand had cupped the back of Kyungsoo’s head. It took all of his will power not to buck his hip up.

 

Kyungsoo pushed his head down and the heat enveloped Jongin’s cock. The man gagged a bit and Jongin’s fingers massaged his scalp, saying in a strained voice, “Set your own pace, darling.” Kyungsoo looked up with wide eyes, lips stretched around his cock with tears beginning to form on his eyes. Jongin could have come from the sight alone.

 

Kyungsoo moved his head up and this time, he bobbed it slowly, only taking half of Jongin. His small mouth accommodated his thick girth little by little and Jongin said, “Hollow your cheeks, Kyungsoo. Don’t use your teeth.”

 

The older man obeyed and Jongin felt the suction around his arousal as Kyungsoo’s mouth moved up and down the length of his cock. His nose would rub on Jongin’s skin and spit dribbled down the side of his mouth, wet and messy.

 

“Use your hand on me,” he said, pulling the man’s palm to wrap on the base of his cock. Kyungsoo was more confident in the movements of his hand and his finger traced a prominent vein as he continued to bob up and down. Jongin moaned at the sight and the feeling as the coils in his stomach built up and increased in pressure. 

 

When Kyungsoo gained a steady pace, he looked up at Jongin, making eye contact as he continued to suck his cock. His cheeks were hollowed and red, and sweat was beading on his temple. Jongin raised his free arm to his mouth, muffling the sound when he felt himself starting to let go, losing himself at the pleasure.

 

He threw his hand back as Kyungsoo’s mouth went down on him faster, taking in as much as he could. The man hummed and the vibrations sent another wave of pleasure down Jongin’s spine. He bit his forearm to curb the loud moan threatening to break free.

 

Kyungsoo’s wrist flicked and Jongin knew he was coming when the heat had turned into almost burning. He warned, “Kyungsoo, I’m— _ah_ —close.”

 

To his surprise the man continued his sucking movements and before long, Jongin was coming in spurts of white inside Kyungsoo’s mouth. The older man pulled out and Jongin groaned at the sight of his come splattered on Kyungsoo’s cheeks, dripping out of the corner of his mouth. His lips were red and puffy and his eyes were blown wide.

 

Kyungsoo’s dick was straining against his pants and Jongin grinned, wiping down his own come on Kyungsoo’s skin. He swiped the slick with his fingers before he pushed it in between the older man’s lips. He lapped Jongin’s come from his fingers, tongue swirling around and curling on the digits. Jongin moaned as he pressed his fingers on the inside of Kyungsoo’s cheek.

 

The older man moaned around the digits and Jongin pulled them out. Kyungsoo chased it when he removed them with a string of spit. He leaned forward, catching Kyungsoo’s lips in a searing kiss. He tasted himself on the other man’s mouth, bitter and salty. His hand found Kyungsoo’s hard on, throbbing and already thick under his hand.

 

He smirked into the kiss, said, “Your turn, my darling.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_July 13, 1950_

 

_Darling,_

 

_Have I ever told you how I felt during our first time?_

 

_I haven’t, have I? You would have bruised me blue and purple if I embarrassed you like that._

 

_But the thing is—I love it. It started with a challenge, you know? And in the middle of it all, it turned into a plea. You scared me, Kyungsoo, when you said you wanted to leave. I thought it was our first and last time and I did not know what I would do to myself if I woke up and found you missing. I would have turned the peninsula over, twice—thrice—however many times—if it meant I would see you again._

 

_I realized how selfish I was, now. I pulled you into a war all because I was afraid of the chances that you would die out there. I was arrogant, thinking I could protect you. But I couldn’t. I brought you in the middle of war and now you’re stuck here—all because of a foolish thought that I could be your hero. Tomorrow, we’re moving to take Taejon from the South._

 

_I’m scared. I want you to make it out alive, Kyungsoo. I’ve told myself—anyone but you, darling. I don’t care about Taejon or whatever the fuck hellhole we are in anymore. That night, when I gave you a ring, I made up my mind._

 

_I want to marry you. I want you to be safe. I want you._

 

_I’m scared and you know how I don’t believe in a god anymore. Well, tonight, there are things I am willing to pray for. I think I understand a little why deities are so attractive to people._

 

_I can do a lot of things _—with love. B_ ut there are things that I cannot have just by my own hands._

 

_There are things so precious to me that I’m willing to take the chance and appeal to a higher power._

 

_So let me give this another try—in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, please watch over us and if someone has to come home alive, then let it not be me._

 

 

* * *

 

 

**_July 14, 1950_ **

 

The first day was always torture and the first night was always the hardest.

 

The region was up in smoke by the first hour. And by the second, the sounds of screaming and gunshots and bombs going off were most definitely deafening. By the third, the events of the day had started disappearing all together in the passing faces of his fellow Korean soldiers—North or South—and the unfamiliar features of foreign aide.

 

Jongin had shot an American officer cleanly, one bullet through each temple, during the fourth hour at point blank range. On the fifth hour, he had finished an entire unit—maybe one of the smaller platoons—with a carefully thrown hand grenade.

 

Before it went off, he had run away from a safe distance and in the aftermath, he felt nothing more than a bystander. The cloud of dust and debris settled all around the place as his skin was painted dark with the grime of the war zone.

 

The war detached people from things, from events, that Jongin wondered, sometimes, if he was really the one pulling the trigger and tugging locks out of explosives and digging holes in the ground. These were worse than the nightmares—at least, those felt real.

 

These ones, they made him feel like he did not exist or he was living outside of his own body. Or this body was not his to own.

 

“Jongin?” Kyungsoo asked, holding him by the crook of his elbow. He stopped from walking and turned to face the other man. He blinked rapidly, trying to shake the fog that had clouded his mind away.

 

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I was spacing out.”

 

Kyungsoo looked around and he dimmed his flashlight a bit, pressing half of the head against his clothed thigh. The darkness was quiet as the two of them patrolled the perimeter. From a distance, they could still hear the remnants of fighting but, where they were assigned to keep guard, it was almost like they were in another place entirely.

 

“Are you okay?” Kyungsoo asked. His hand skidded upwards, fitting around Jongin’s bicep and giving the hard flesh a squeeze. 

 

Jongin sighed, looking around for any sign of another person within their immediate radius. Finding none, he stepped closer and into Kyungsoo’s space, the tips of his shoes in between Kyungsoo’s. He bent his head, resting his forehead on Kyungsoo’s shoulder.

 

“I’m tired,” he said.

 

A multitude of things remained unsaid but they were, nonetheless, heard and shared.

 

Kyungsoo gripped his hand and he pulled him to the direction that was off the path that they should making rounds at. Jongin intertwined they fingers, finding comfort in the filled spaces. The older man led them behind a thicket of trees, turning slightly so, Jongin assumed, they could be fully hidden.

 

“Turn your light off, Jongin,” Kyungsoo said as he flicked the switch off of his. He followed the other man and the two of them were enveloped in the silence of the night. The sounds of the cicadas sundered the still air as vibrations ricocheted off of each other.

 

Kyungsoo let go of Jongin’s hand as he slumped down on the hard earth. Jongin’s eyes were slow to adjust in the darkness and the the sky was barely illuminating anything. Yet, when he took a breath, he knew where Kyungsoo was with absolute certainty.

 

Jongin reached his arm out and, in the pitch black that was his vision, their hands met.

 

He felt a tug from the older man and Jongin obediently sat down beside him. His ass hit the dry ground and the pebbles dug on his flesh uncomfortably. He wiggled around, reaching underneath him to dust the larger pieces of stones and twigs.

 

Jongin did not let go and neither did Kyungsoo.

 

None of them spoke for a moment and the only thing that told them that the other was still there was the steady motions of their fingers on skin. Jongin was caressing the back of Kyungsoo’s hand, on the skin between the thumb and index finger. Kyungsoo’s fingers were drumming an absent melody on Jongin’s knuckles, making piano keys out of the protruding bones.

 

Jongin was content like this—the sounds of the war were far away, and Kyungsoo’s warmth was against his. Shared and exchanged. It felt like it was enough for tonight and he wondered if they could stay like this until the end.

 

If Jongin were to disappear like this, the only complaint he would have was that he did not get as much time.

 

Distantly, another gunshot lingered in the blank of the night, air distorting with the sound, ruffling. Jongin squeezed the hand inside his and the older man returned the gesture.

 

Jongin sighed and he let his head loll back, resting against the jagged bark of the tree. Kyungsoo’s breathing was steady even his face must be the picture of serenity, even if he could not see in the dark.

 

“Kyungsoo?” He called out. The whisper branched out in smooth tendrils, almost escaping if Kyungsoo had not caught it.

 

“What is it?”

 

Jongin knew the question but his tongue felt heavy, sticking on the roof of his mouth. His throat felt dry and he swallowed before sucking in a breath through his teeth. The sharp whistle made Kyungsoo move, rustling as he shuffled closer. Their thighs made contact and their shoulders brushed against one another.

 

“Would you run away with me?” He threw it out there, fingers grappling for Kyungsoo’s out of instinct. He stopped breathing, preparing himself for the man’s reply.

 

He heard a gasp before absolute silence—like a gunshot in the middle of a quiet alleyway, soon to be forgotten, a secret between narrow spaces.

 

“Where to?” Kyungsoo asked back. His voice was high and disbelieving.

 

“Anywhere but here,” Jongin answered. “Wherever you’ll be safe. I’ll surrender to the enemy.”

 

He felt Kyungsoo flinch and the man almost withdrew his hand if not for Jongin pulling it back towards him. He held it firmly, making sure the other knew that he would not let go that easy. The tug stopped and one corner of Jongin’s lips twitched upwards.

 

“You’re a captain of a company, Jongin,” Kyungsoo sighed. “You have close to three hundred men under your command.”

 

Jongin knew this too. But—

 

“You’re more important.” 

 

There was a sound of a scoff but it was not mocking. It broke off in an aborted whimper, like Kyungsoo was desperately trying to contain the wave of emotions from washing him away.

 

“Three hundred men, Jongin,” Kyungsoo said. His tone was almost hysterical even if his voice remained soft. The hand that he was holding turned clammy, and Jongin rubbed his thumb on the skin, trying to provide a semblance of comfort no matter how welcomed or not. The older man added for emphasis, “I’m just one man.”

 

He smiled, replying, “You’re enough, Kyungsoo.”

 

Another sound. It sounded like that of an injured animal—tiny and aching. Underneath, there was longing and the telltale hint of incredulity as well as amazement. 

 

“You have known me for three months,” Kyungsoo countered. It sounded weak to Jongin’s ears—the way it streamed out of the other man’s mouth, helpless and unconvincing.

 

“Yes,” Jongin settled simply. In the darkness, he turned his head to Kyungsoo’s direction. The man was not facing him from what he could see of the other’s silhouette. His shoulders were slumping low. He added, “You’ve known me the same amount of time.”

 

There was another sigh that left Kyungsoo’s lips as the breadth of his shoulders gave away under the invisible weight. The smaller man said, “Why are you doing this?”

 

_Good question_ , Jongin wanted to say—except. The truth was that he knew. Jongin knew why he was asking this of Kyungsoo with the certainty of the reality they were living in.

 

“If you’re in my place and I’m a farmer pulled into a war I do not want—” The pad of his finger continued to draw circles on the other’s skin. “—and you’re the soldier from the North, would you—” A pause. The silence hung in its fragile length, hopelessly delicate. 

 

“Would you give up everything?” 

 

“Faster than a heartbeat.”

 

The quietness that had passed when Jongin finished the murmur that was his question had been broken with the timbre of Kyungsoo’s firm voice, sure but soft. 

 

Jongin smiled into nothing and his heart felt lighter than ever. He had never felt more loved, and adored, than that very moment.

 

“Then there is your answer,” he said.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Jongin lied awake at night, his brain would run through things, planning and cataloguing. Nothing but the best, he knew, for Kyungsoo.

 

He sneaked in and took copies of their documents—proof of birth and residence, Kyungsoo’s conscription notice, his own enlistment papers. He perused the older man’s file and his eyes widened as he read the minute details—place of birth, date of birth, parental information. 

 

His heart thundered in his heart as various maybes played behind his eyelids and he thought, whatever happened, it was going to be alright. If not for him, then for Kyungsoo.

 

He tucked the papers inside another envelope, brown manila pilfered from the office supplies and held shut by a string that wound around a clip. In neat handwriting, he scrawled Kyungsoo’s name on the back just to make sure he would not exchange their papers.

 

In the morning, outside his bedroom, the battle continued like Jongin’s own personal misfortune. Soldiers died left and right, and there was barely any time left to shed tears. The doctors were wrung dry and the nurses, already about to collapse, had barely been able to suture and clean wounds. If there were men left to bleed to death because no one could do their fucking jobs, then everyone turned their heads to the other direction, thankful that they were not the ones on their death bed.

 

Jongin knew Taejon would be hard and painful but—not this much. Not by this much.

 

The days had moved alongside the infantrymen—continuing down south, trying to take the airbase as the other units were engaged in firefights that, to anyone, seemed never ending.

 

Every time Jongin felt like he would die, from the tiredness and the hunger and the rush of blood and adrenaline, he would think about that night when Kyungsoo said, ‘ _faster than a heartbeat’._ And his mind would rush through another night when the silver of the ring he had stolen winked from where it was cradled around Kyungsoo’s finger.

 

And hell on earth, Jongin would think, he felt like he was coming home.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**_July 21, 1950_ **

 

Taejon remained to be a whole new hell altogether that was both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. War zones were almost always similar in nature but nothing could ever be the same when everyone was bent on killing everyone and anyone.

 

The city bled alongside the citizens and the outskirts of it were colored in a deep red, rich and pungent, smelling of rust and dirt. The center was held together by an iron fist and a loose index finger. One moment could have been the end with how careless soldiers were with their firearms. Jongin would turn a blind eye to what the other company leaders would and would not do—a coward, a heretic.

 

Amidst of it all, the exchange of fires continued under the pretense of rudimentary conventional warfare. In truth, Jongin was sure that everyone was winging it, trying not to die at the hands of anyone—be it the men on the same side or the enemies.

 

The men above thought it could have been the last day of fighting. The America troops were gunned down, and about to retreat to the perimeters of Pusan. They were news of them capturing a major general from the other side—the highest they would take as a prisoner as of the moment.

 

Everything was supposed to go to plan. Taejon was theirs. Pusan was next. The South had bid their time, stalling as much as they could despite the lack of forces. There was only one thing left to take and then—victory. Jongin did not know what would happen next but he thought that, at the very least, something would come to an end, finally.

 

The war would not even last throughout winter and the weather had yet to turn around. The temperature was still bristling and, hopeless and foolish, he imagined Kyungsoo and himself afterwards. They could get asylum from the other side—maybe from the surrendering American forces, or the United Nations. Jongin was not sure how, and he did not have an inkling what a United Nations was before this, but if they could grant Kyungsoo the safety that he wished for the older man then Jongin decided, they were not as bad as North made them out to be.

 

Kyungsoo became the apex and the turning point. Kyungsoo became his everything, in three months. 

 

Jongin wondered, how they would be when given more time together. And then, when he gazed to the slow defeat of the opposing side, he imagine they could have that—more time.

 

Together.

 

Just when he thought it was all supposed to be fine, as fine as wartime could be, his eyes zeroed in on Kyungsoo, body half exposed behind the safety of their sand bags that protected them. Jongin was about to grip the man’s clothes when he saw it—three whizzing bullets, directed towards the older man.

 

“Kyungsoo!” He screamed. “Kyung—”

 

There was a gasp and a cry of pain and Jongin watched with bated breath as blood soaked Kyungsoo’s clothes in rapidly spreading red. His vision turned blurry as his eyes started heating up. His mind blanked out as the noises turned into static and the only sound he could hear was the rush of his blood and the pounding inside his chest.

 

His breathing turned shallow as he ran towards the other man. Jongin held Kyungsoo’s head and around them, he felt time stopping. He cradled the man on his lap, fingers running on the ashen skin. Kyungsoo was taking short gasps and panic was behind the wildness painted on his features.

 

“Calm down, darling,” he whispered softly. The endearment was drowned by the fighting they were in the middle of. Jongin’s fingers gripped Kyungsoo’s jaw as his other hand tapped the other male’s cheek. 

 

“Stay awake for me.” Jongin cooed, begged. His tears dropped and it tracked through the grime on his skin.

 

“Jongin,” Kyungsoo exhaled, breath shuddering. “Sweetheart—”

 

He smiled and he bent his head low. Their foreheads did not touch but their breaths were mingling and their lips were hovering over each other. Another centimeter and they would kiss. 

 

The blood was warm under Jongin’s hands.

 

“Hush,” he said. Jongin had never abhorred the color red this much until this second. “It’s going to be okay.”

 

Kyungsoo coughed and his mouth stretched into a grin, trying to look cheerful and teasing. It came out wobbly as he whispered, “Liar.”

 

Jongin’s breath was knocked out of his lungs and suddenly, everything felt like it was on fire—scorching and aching, licking his skin and burning him, reducing him to ashes. Like a prayer, he shook Kyungsoo in his hold, repeating over and over again, “No. No. No. _Nononono_.” Jongin’s voice broke and his throat felt tight as the older man’s lids slowly grew heavy.

 

He whispered, prayed, begged, to anyone who would listen—God, Jesus Christ, the Devil. “Please stay awake. Don’t fall asleep on me, darling.” There was a smile on Kyungsoo’s face, distinct despite the cloud of his own tears. 

 

“Anyone but you, Kyungsoo. I promised. Absolutely anyone as long as it’s not you.”

 

There was a breath of laughter and the hope in Jongin’s chest shrunk, before bubbling over. The pressure was constricting. He watched the end, wondered if Kyungsoo would come home like this—inside the cradle of his arms, amidst the fighting.

 

Taejon fell alongside Kyungsoo and with them both, Jongin’s heart.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_July 22, 1950_

 

_Kyungsoo,_

 

_When I try to justify everything, I always think that there is a structure to the design of our lives. That you and I, darling, are meant for great things._

 

_War heroes. Medals. Marching bands._

 

_But I have realized there is one thing, and that it is the greatest—each other._

 

_You and I—and something else, bigger than anything we can ever name._

 

_So I will always remember that night, our first time together. You called me your sweetheart and I called you my darling._ _And I know I can die like this—always having that one night with me._

 

 

* * *

 

 

_July 24, 1950_

 

_I have another thing to tell you. Don’t worry, I promised love stories and this one—this one may be more tragic than what you’re used to but. It’s a story about love nonetheless._

 

_When I was a boy, I’ve longed for this country to become free. Back then, I had no idea what freedom meant except that there would be no Japanese barging into our home and I could play on the streets without having my mother worry her rosary every time I step foot outside._

 

_The longing then, I realized now, was not longing._

 

_You made me realize what it meant to long for another. Can you believe it? That I long for you more than I have longed for an entire country all together?_

 

_Three months and this is what I have become._

 

_Three months. Imagine how much I could love you more if given forever._

 

_When I have first met you, I am a soldier in the army fighting for something I do not understand. I still am, I guess, except that I think I do not know where I stand right now unless it is by your side._

 

_I have never confessed this to anyone. And on this day, I whisper my sins to this paper so that my letter will tell you. Sometimes, when it is dark and I lie awake at night beside your sleeping form, explosions will ring inside my head, gunshots, and grenades going off. I will take you in my arms and I will bury my nose on top of your head, inhaling you._

 

_Sometimes, I feel like floating, with no idea of what is happening to me. Sometimes, I feel like I do not exist. But then you will smile at me and—did you know, Kyungsoo? That when you smile, a little of your gums will show with you teeth and your eyes will disappear and your cheeks are full and healthy-looking as they bunch up. You will seek me and I will seek you because we want to share our happiness with each other despite the fact that we are stuck in a time when we cannot be._

 

_And yet, in this world, you are my only certainty. You make me feel like I am, my love._

 

_I have told myself I will bring this to my grave but I want to tell it to you—because this is your love story, no matter how twisted it is because of me. Sometimes, I am thankful for the war, all of it _—_ the deaths, the pain, the wounds, the nightmares _—_ because I have met you, and have held you, and have kissed you. And they are enough for me to forgive and forget everything. Because you are with me and I am with you._

 

_This is selfish, I know. Love makes people selfish. The whole truth, honest to a God I don’t believe in, is that this country, this entire peninsula, can burn in hell, in purgatory, can burn on top of my own palms, and I will not care if it means it will keep you from shivering because we’re too hungry and the food ration is not enough._

 

_I am not a good person, Kyungsoo. I never am. But your kisses make me feel like I am, for a moment, this summer in 1950, even if the peninsula is getting blasted six ways to fucking Sunday._ _You make me feel like a good man, make me want to be one._

 

_I want you safe. And I want to be with you. And I want you to remember that I love you. I love you more than anything in this world. More than my whole self, even if I am never in one piece. Not after the war that I feel like will never end._

 

_ When everything was peaceful and I could pretend that there was no war looming over us, I thought: you can do a lot of things—with love. I had thought of that many times, and with many meanings. And today, and the following days, I will always think of you and then, that.  _

_ You really can do a lot of things—with love.  _

_ So please, I want to come home to you, my summer.  _

_ Wake up, Kyungsoo. Let me see your pretty eyes once more.  _

 

 

* * *

 

 

_July 29, 1950_

 

_My summer,_

 

_Wartime has made me realize that some stories end abruptly. No one waits for the climax or the resolution or the final kiss. Bullets don’t stop just because someone wants them to. It’s a fucking cheat, is it not? After all those things and then what? Nothing?_

 

_But I have promised. And if there is one thing I am good for, then it is keeping promises to you._

 

_These are love stories—our love stories._

 

_Instead of a grand narrative, I always think of the two of us as a collection of snippets. You and I both as the characters who star in every moment of my life. There is no large painting—we are not worthy of museums. What we have are the framed images displayed inside warm living rooms._

 

_My darling, our love is made in miniatures—the tiny fractions that form infinities I can hold in my hand._

 

_I love you, plain and simple. Till we meet again, Kyungsoo._

 

_Yours truly in this life, and the next, and the next, until there is none left,_

_Jongin_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Jongin has intrusive thoughts throughout the story and Kyungsoo is deaf on one ear. Jongin, throughout the story, deals with the subject of his faith with regards to his sexuality and his profession (soldier). As the fic is set pre- and during the Korean War, there are multiple depictions of death, _including that of a major character_.**
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> Congratulations for reaching the end and finishing! Once again, thank you. Please leave kudos and comments (but don't be too harsh 'cause I cry easily and this my first fic fest).
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> Also, I am sorry for ending it that way. I hope Jongin's letters in the end are enough of an explanation.
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> _War steals quick and without notice._  
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> — Sources: The Korean War / Korea Institute of Military History (Millett, 2000); The Reds Take a City (Riley, Jr. & Schramm, 1951); Korean War Almanac (Summers, 1990)
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> — The story was first inspired when I found In Love and War (2011) while googling Korean War. I kinda forgot what I was looking for that had that movie appearing. I did not watch it, though, so I could not say how different or similar this is to the film.
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> — The fic deals with four major themes: love, war (morality), God (religion), and power (politics). Even if he denied, repressed, and felt insecure, love is the only thing Jongin did not question out of the four . In my opinion, this is what makes him as a character. Likewise, it's Jongin's internal conflict that moves everything and the story is very central to his character.
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> — Jongin’s mother, in my mind, belonged to the upper class pre-Japanese annexation. With this, she had the most access to Catholicism. When Jongin was born, his mother had long been poor. Also, one of his major misconceptions was that his father was a non practicing Catholic. In reality, he was not even one.
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> — Jongin prays in Latin which is the lingua franca of the Church that time. I’m unsure whether it is the language his mother has been taught with by the missionaries so I’m taking creative license here. He was praying Glory Be, first, and the second is a portion of the Lord’s Prayer, “And forgive us our sins […]” until the end. It makes it more poignant when he pulls the trigger.
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> — Some of the lines, for those who noticed, are inspired by quotations and/or concepts from Dwight Eisenhower, Plato, Cicero, and Augustine. The novel that Jongin read to Kyungsoo, however, is an original work by yours truly—an unpublished draft of a novel that I'm not sure will ever be posted or published.
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> Lastly, there are indeed twelve letters. They will be posted after the reveals. Also, if it's a comfort, it's not really meant to be finished the way it was. Maybe I'll post the alternate ending, too. Who knows?


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